


compulsions

by sternenrotz



Series: rebirth [2]
Category: The Horrors (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Character Death, Developing Relationship, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Possessive Behavior, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:56:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenrotz/pseuds/sternenrotz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faris is still a somewhat prestigious mad artist, and Rhys is... still? already? deeply emotionally damaged. they fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. from the sea

**Author's Note:**

> prequel to [batty](http://archiveofourown.org/works/758188).
> 
> very, very loosely inspired by 'Mermaid in a Jar' by Sheila Heti, which can be read here ([x](http://www.sheilaheti.net/mermaid.html))

a thing which Faris has never been is confident. good at feigning confidence, yes, or rather, good at looking the part, which, when it boils down to it is mostly his height and his hawking features, that and the fact that another thing he's not very good at is emoting. the thing is, being tall and intimidating and emotionless is really the only thing that keeps people from noticing all that insecurity, and Faris fucking _knows_ it.

this is a gallery, the kind of gallery that has arched ceilings high up and mosaic tiled floors, not the stuffy little places with brick walls that are mostly frequented by people who take updating their blog too seriously. all the major newspapers and art journals have been here already, snapping pictures of exhibition pieces which Faris just knew would end up washing out the colours of the pastel crayons and blurring all the little lines of ink together, and the television, too, to film a couple of interviews which were painful to give and even more painful to watch.

rumours are going around now, little whispered words passing back and forth between gallery goers' heads while they lean in closely to look at the detail of an ink sketch, and badly spelled comments on internet articles. they're making guesses at his mental state, his parents, his parents' money and his love life, all those little bits of false information slowly coming together to build up a vague picture of the myth, Faris Badwan. Faris Badwan, the enigma on the edge of the gallery, answering journalists' questions in his monotone voice and his messy hair, in his tailored suit jacket which could hide scars of a failed suicide attempt or a tattoo dedicated to his grandfather.

he's starting to get used to wearing a suit, this is the same suit he's worn for the exhibition's opening last week, all black with a deep red kerchief tucked into the chest pocket, which, according to the internet, has apparently fuelled the gay rumours further. another thing which Faris is bad at is not googling himself.

he's wearing his old coke-bottle frames, too, because they make him feel slightly less like an arsehole who wears a suit. this is the very last night of the exhibition, and the gallery is crawling with visitors once again. it's been busy all week, yes, frequented by art students and critics and bored middle-aged couples who read one of the many articles and decided to see for themselves, but tonight is Saturday night, the last night of the exhibition, and the place is packed with suits and cocktail dresses holding sleek glasses of white wine. the room is filled with noises, nothing particularly loud but the general lull that happens when a lot of humans are trapped in a small space, the sound of heels clacking down onto pictures of Greek gods down on the stone floor and the white noise of hundreds of voices chattering into each other, all that underlaid with soft classical music, a slow piano piece that doesn't seem to ever end. Faris had always thought of galleries and museums as quiet places, temples of silence, but over the past few months he's begun to re-evaluate that opinion, and even though a majority of the hushed words that fill the room are obviously about him, he's beginning to feel slightly ignored, which, really, is probably the best he's felt in a while. he sinks back into the wall, relaxed even in his tight suit jacket and the starched shirt with the too-tight tie.

another two bad habits Faris knows he has, having bad posture and people watching, although the latter has become such a bore over the last week that he's starting to find himself wondering why he still does it more and more frequently. they're all the same, really, the gallery attenders, men with boring profiles and couture suits and women with designer haircuts and designer breasts pushed too far out from their necklines. an art gallery filled with what looks like the opposite of art. Faris is beginning to zone out, starts to blur them all together in his mind, the dark ink of black ties, black suit jackets and black slinky dresses all turning into one continuous blot, a Rorschach test of sorts.

what Faris sees is a thing which he doesn't ever want to see again. maybe if he squints a lot, a thing that he didn't really have in mind when he agreed to the exhibition. he watches the brief subtle shifts in the ink, watches it turn into the most disappointing experience of his life so far, but there's one lone figure that stands out from the mush.

a kid his age maybe, clearly wearing a colourful paisley shirt below his too-big blazer, who's staring intently at the dark lines of an ink sketch of his parents' old house, the part where the bricks start running closer and closer together in the far back of it. he looks like he's lost, a little, maybe, probably came here on his own, or stumbled in by accident and then couldn't find the way back out, and like he's trying to find the way back just by staring at the part where the black stops being distinct lines and just turns into one deep shadow. Faris has seen him around before, though, he's been here the night before, and the night before that, so maybe he's just really, really lost. lost or interested, and it's the last night of the exhibition after all, so Faris decides that this is the right time to fake some confidence, and so, he pushes his way through the uniform mass of suits until he gets there.

'you're enjoying yourself, then?'

'huh?' a fine face with thin lips and cheekbones that look like they belong on a runway model, the type of face that looks like it wasn't assembled correctly. Faris thinks of modern art, and then of long, deep strokes of his pen that make dark lines of shadows cast by ins and outs. 'yeah, I am. great exhibition, exceeds what I expected.' the kid smiles and it goes to his eyes, changes the black and whites of his face. 'this guy's brilliant. hear he's a bit of a weirdo though.'

'yeah, I've heard.'

'he's a savant, supposedly, IQ of 185, but with extreme OCD.'

'I've heard he's a schizophrenic and only leaves his house once a month.'

'all just rumours though, isn't it. you think any of this stuff about him is true?'

'it's not. think I'd know, on account of the fact I am him.' Faris laughs.

the kid's brows knit together, and then, after a couple of split seconds, he says, 'you look taller in pictures, you know that.'

Faris glances between the both of them, and it makes sense, in a weird way, because the kid may be small, with thin shoulders and spidery long fingers, but he's certainly not short, only has to crane his neck a little to make eye contact. 'yeah. I get that a lot.'

a silence spreads between them, the awkward kind of silence that flickers in Faris' brain like white noise, and he feels the need to cough, which he doesn't.

the kid folds his fingers, white and bony, and says, 'so, you're Faris Badwan, then. the man behind the art.'

'that's me.' Faris is terrible at small talk. 'and you are?'

'Rhys.' the kid's thumb strokes over one prominent knuckle and he adds, 'always nice to meet an artist. put a face to the brain.'

'you're interested in my brain, then?' really, really terrible at small talk.

'the reason I came here. all the things I've heard about this mad recluse artist, I figured I'd wanted to see if the art really is as crazy as people say.' the kid, right, Rhys, Faris reminds himself, smiles a big toothy smile that looks like it could have been thought up as part of one of his drawings, loop connected with loop after loop to vaguely shape teeth, black ink in off-white recycled notebook paper. 'would like to know more about your brain, though. about you.'

the thing is, Faris has really low confidence. ever since he first started seeing girls, and the one boy he had for a couple of months when he was nineteen, he's not exactly sure what people see in him that makes them want to know him. he'd asked his last girlfriend about this, only weeks before they broke up, and she'd shrugged and said, 'it's because you're an arse. some magnificent mystery arse, and it makes people want to get to know you and figure out what the fuck is wrong with you.'

it hadn't exactly been uplifting, but the bad part about it was that it had been right, this is precisely what makes Faris even remotely interesting. the thing that fuels the rumours.

'you want to know what's going on then that's turned me into some mad artist?'

'not the nicest way of putting it. I guess I'd just like to see how you work, the thing that lets you do these things.' Rhys shrugs. 'some mix of admiration and curiosity, I suppose.'

probably the worst of all of Faris' features is that he can be painfully self-aware at times, so when Rhys gives him this soft smile that's all honesty and sincerity and genuine interest, he already knows how it's going to end. Rhys is just the type that he's always been attracted to, the sickly sad-eyed kind of human who probably has some deeply ingrained unresolved childhood trauma in some point of his back story. it's not going to be his fault when it ends, because it's always Faris' fault, it's his lack of self-esteem and his possessiveness, his outlook on life and his perpetual apathy, all those things that he can't fix no matter how much he beats himself up over them. he supposes that maybe this self-awareness is his conscience talking, the voice of reason in the back of his brain that analyses and cracks down on every single one of his actions, but then, Faris has never really bothered with listening to it. besides, Rhys is right there, and he's interesting, and it's been so long since Faris ruined it with his last girlfriend that he's beginning to feel a little lonely.

'well, since tonight is the last night of the exhibition I was going to drive home tomorrow morning, but I think I can put that off for another few hours.'

'huh?'

'I wanted to take you out for coffee? tomorrow?'

'oh.' that smile is stretching out onto Rhys' cheeks again, adds dark lines to his flesh where it curves into itself, and Faris wants to take out the fountain pen he keeps in his shirt pocket and trace every single muscle in his face. 'why not, yes. do you want my number then?'

-

for their first date, Faris meets Rhys at this little café not too far from the gallery, a bright little place with white stucco ceilings and pale wooden furniture that looks a little like it was carved from sugar icing. he drinks his coffee black while Rhys orders a strawberry muffin and a cup of rose hip tea that smells so sweet it makes Faris want to be sick. again, Faris is terrible at leading a conversation, but Rhys doesn't seem to mind. he's all soft smiles and excited hand gestures, and he doesn't try to coax every last bit of information out of Faris the way some of his ex girlfriends did. the entire time, his eyes half watch the notebook in Faris' hands and the way the ink fills the pages, trace the lines of a series of circles which bubble up through his hands while Rhys talks about music and it makes his voice bubble as well. Rhys likes music a lot, this is a thing that Faris finds out quickly, he started collecting records when he was thirteen and he plays the bass and the organ.

'so you're studying music then I assume?'

'er.' Rhys laughs, awkwardly, and Faris wants to take a picture so he can trace every little line in his face exactly and, no, actually, that's not the reason Faris wants to take a picture, but it's an excuse to take one so he can actually just memorise the way Rhys looks when he laughs. 'not really, no, actually.'

'where do you go to school?'

Rhys mumbles off a name that Faris vaguely recognises, an art school less prestigious than the one he ended up going to.

'so, you're into art then?'

'fashion design,' Rhys says, half into his cup of tea, like he's embarrassed. 'I know, it's no match for you and your fancy illustration degree, but it's what I want to do, I guess.'

Faris laughs. 'didn't take you as the type who would be into that kind of thing. I mean, fashion student who wears paisley?'

'my plan is to bring paisley back, actually.' Rhys extends one hand across the table like he wants to reach for the one of Faris' that isn't currently scribbling a messy sketch of the patterns in the ceiling into his notebook, and Faris takes it. his hand is soft, like he's been using hand lotion, and fine and small compared to Faris' own, but then, everyone is small compared to Faris, and it's clammy, just a little.

'well,' Faris says and shuts his notebook, 'I wish you the best luck on your... plans, then.'

Rhys doesn't say anything to that, just smiles in that crooked awkward way he has that makes Faris ache more than he would like to admit, and honestly, this is probably the moment when he knows that he's gone, that he wants to keep Rhys forever and find out everything about him.

contrary to his apathetic demeanour and the rumours of being clinically depressed with a severely disordered personality, Faris is a bit of a romantic when it comes to relationships.

'I'm going to try my best,' Rhys says, and his thumb strokes over the back of Faris' hand. the skin on his hands is white like milk, or like the sugar icing of the walls of the café. he's cold like milk, too, the unpleasant feeling of spilling milk straight from the fridge onto your hand. it makes a contrast from the warm and tan of Faris' hand.

'your hands are kind of cold, you know,' Faris says, but he doesn't pull away, only strokes the back of Rhys' hand in return, how soft the skin there is, too.

'sorry,' Rhys says and then that smile is cutting across his face again. 'my hands are always cold.'

'I don't mind,' Faris smiles back and takes Rhys' hand between both of his. 'I'll keep them warm for you.' really, it's not just that Faris is a bit of a romantic, but he's actually a big sap.

'you're lovely.' the smile just won't leave Rhys' face, and Faris can almost feel it, it's in the air like static. 'tell me more about you.'

a waitress passes by and Faris orders himself another black coffee. he turns to Rhys and says, 'only if you tell me more about you, too.' a really big sap.

–

by the end of the day, after Faris dropped Rhys off at the gates of his parents' house, he's finally driving home all the way from London, and he's learned the following about Rhys: he's got a younger brother and two fish in a tank. his favourite colour is red and his favourite type of tea is actually ginger, not rose hip, but he drinks rose hip when he's nervous.

'so that means you're nervous now. why?'

'I'm out on a date with a famous artist. why would I be not nervous?'

Rhys does not like coffee or old oil paintings. he lives with his mum and dad, still, and he's never had a job other than delivering newspapers one summer when he was sixteen. he's older than Faris, just by seven months, and he took off two years before going to uni because of a long-lasting bout of depression.

'I don't know what was wrong with me back then,' he'd said, casually, and taken a small bite of his strawberry muffin. he's a slow eater, Faris noticed, and he kept getting distracted by the conversation between bites. 'I didn't know what to do, I just spent every day in bed all day not feeling anything. but I guess I'm better now.' he smiled that smile again, then, the same as before, but Faris noticed something new in it, a frail bit of sadness that he hadn't seen earlier. a little, it had made him want to press Rhys tightly to him and keep him forever, make sure nothing bad ever happens to him again, even if it was silly and sappy and illogical, but instead he settled for stroking Rhys' hand once again.

Rhys used to write poetry, but then he stopped when he realised it wasn't really going anywhere, and he wants to live somewhere on the coast after he graduates. he likes B movies and he doesn't read books a lot, but when he does, it's memoirs or other non-fiction. when he was nineteen and still stuck in his bout of depression, he had a new age phase. he's an Aquarius.

he spent the majority of their date gazing out the window out into the crowded street and Faris watched him, the way his gaze drifted out into the distance and how his fingers just kept playing across the back of his hand, still a bit cold and tapping out rhythms Faris didn't recognise.

this is what Faris thinks about on the drive while he's trying to focus on the road, this and everything else about Rhys, really. in his head, he sketches out Rhys' fingers white and straight as piano keys, in turn playing the piano that is the ridges of bone and veins on the back of his hand. little bits of their conversation keep floating back into his head, and honestly, it's not that Faris gets attached easily, but there's something about Rhys that's different, that makes him objectively fascinating. Faris has this weird desire to pull him apart and analyse the way he works like he would with a piece of art. he turns the radio down further and listens to the memory of Rhys' voice, the way it rolled around every one of his words like singing and the contrast it made next to the deep monotone of his own, like some strange music.

Faris has never been the type to emote a lot.

when he finally gets home, it's midnight-dark and he's so tired he nearly slips in the stretch of gravel where he parks the car, but Faris stays up the entire night, crouched over his sketchbook and enveloped in getting all those things in his brain out. by the time the fingers of sunlight creep through the blinds of the study, he has a nasty cramp in his drawing hand and pages filled with dialogue snippets and sketches of Rhys' face, his hands, the way his mouth contorts around words. bubbles, too, obsessive little circles that crowd into corners and through pages and in turn get filled with words as well.

dialogue bubbles, or air bubbles, maybe.

that morning, Faris falls asleep to the sound of an old 60s record he picked up at a flea market weeks earlier, to the vibration of the drums bubbling through the floor.

–

their second date isn't exactly a date, but a few days after that first time, Faris sits on the phone with Rhys for a whole two hours. he's never been the type who likes to talk on the phone, doesn't even have a mobile, it just seems weird without a face to connect to the voice. he likes this, though, to sit in the study with his hands steadily working at his notebook and the receiver with Rhys' voice in it pinned between his ear and shoulder. honestly, another reason Faris doesn't like talking on the phone is because he invariably begins zoning out after a few minutes, so he mainly lets Rhys' voice lull against his ear like some form of background music. under his hands, more bubbles of ink form, bubbles like the way Rhys' voice curves itself around the words.

Faris snaps back into consciousness when he hears his own name, followed by a silence. 'what?'

Rhys laughs and it makes more bubbles, on the page and under Faris' skin. 'I was wondering what your sign is.'

'it's Virgo. September 21. why'd you want to know?'

'just curious.' another laugh. 'I've been reading up on more new age things lately, so I figured I should ask you that.'

Faris laughs back, and he can feel his hand slowing, feels it blow up a massive bubble of a sloppy circle in the centre of a blank page, and he slowly begins to scrawl little designs into it, black dots on white paper to represent stars. a map of the constellations, although his stars most likely don't resemble anything on the real night sky and Rhys would probably be ashamed. a silence starts to spread from the phone, seep through the receiver like a liquid, and Faris starts to miss Rhys' voice.

'you should tell me a story.'

'what kind of story?'

'one you think is interesting, I don't know.'

'I know a lot of interesting stories.'

'maybe something from one of your new age books. something to keep me entertained, just keep talking please?'

'all right.' a cough, two coughs, and then Rhys' voice is back. 'hope you'll like this one.'

'I probably will,' Faris says and immediately hates himself for it a little.

then Rhys' voice is there once again, painting pictures of sea creatures and stars and Faris follows it with his hands, draws more imaginary constellations onto the paper. the one on the bottom right is the eagle. above it, further east, is the curve of Rhys' mouth that Faris pictures when he says the word 'river', and the soft curve of the river itself. in the centre of the circle is the mermaid surrounded by her entourage of starry little fishes, all made up of a fat black dot with a tail of two smaller stars. the far north-west has the sea-goat, somewhere that the actual Capricorn is most likely not located, perpetually trapped in a vicious horn lock with an equally misplaced Aries. it's his new improved version of the old constellations, all littered around the white paper sky.

'did you like my story?'

Faris leans back and looks at the stars he made, his own personal galaxy. he feels like God. 'loved it.'

'I'm glad.' Rhys' voice is soft and twinkling, like stars, appropriately enough. 'you're coming back down to London again soon, then?'

'I'm not sure.'

'you really should. I want to see you again.'

Faris smiles and doesn't even mean to. 'I'll consider it, then.'

–

some weeks from then, Faris drives all the way down to London to see Rhys.

this is after more overly long phone calls which mostly consisted of Rhys talking and Faris only half listening and half letting Rhys' voice guide his hands into drawing out strange new places and creatures. sometimes in the dead of the night or the early morning crawling dusk, after Faris has spent the night scrawling down into his notebook almost with a compulsive need, both of them more asleep than awake, soft voices that whisper nonsensical words like strange lullabies.

the last conversation they'd had, sometime in the early evening, while Faris' fingers were drawing out lazy leaves of apple trees like the ones in the orchard not too far from his house and shaky dark pine needle lines, Rhys had asked, 'you think this is going to be serious?'

'what?'

'us. do you want this to go anywhere? somewhere like commitment?'

'I don't know.' Faris leaned back in his chair and smiled. 'I've only met you twice.'

'we could change that, you know.'

'do you want us to be serious?'

a small pause. through the static of the old phone's receiver, Faris could hear soft, calm breathing, and it almost felt comforting. 'maybe I do.'

'that's great.' he tried to make it sound enthusiastic, encouraging, perhaps, but it fell flat. Faris has never been the type to emote a lot.

'you really should come down soon. I miss you.'

'think I will, then.'

–

the day after that conversation, Faris bothered with leaving the house for the first time in weeks. (sometimes he catches himself thinking that maybe, the hermit rumours aren't too far off.) he drove all the way into town to the stuffy record shop, and while he rifled through singles and Tom sorted new arrivals into their shelves, he let himself out all over the last few exhibitions and the gossip that's spreading around the internet.

gossip. Faris hates that word.

Tom spent most of that part of their conversation 'hmm'ing and nodding, and making snide comments about Faris being 'basically a celebrity, then.'

Faris rolled his eyes to that and said, 'not something to joke about.'

'that bad?'

'I'd rather shoot myself in the head.'

Tom simply laughed and went into the back room. 'coffee for you too, then?'

'why not.'

Faris stayed at the shop until closing time, that day. over the course of the afternoon, after he'd finished going on about the rumours and the fake inkblot people, the conversation drifted to new music, records which Tom thought Faris absolutely needed to listen to, over this film he'd seen the other month which he thought Faris might like, to Tom's own life, which was considerably more boring than Faris', but Faris still listened carefully, even while his hands were flipping through records. his eyes kept flicking back up to Tom's face, watched the way the muscles beneath the skin contorted while he spoke, the way he used to study anatomy textbooks when he was still working toward his degree. Faris is a realist sometimes.

at one point, when the conversation had come to a comfortable lull, Faris asked, 'so, you're still going out with the nurse girl then?'

'dentist's assistant. she's a dentist's assistant.' Tom placed the album he was holding into the spot on the shelf where it belonged and then took a sip of coffee from his mug. 'we broke up last month, actually.'

'oh.'

'it was mutual.' Tom turned around to shoot him a quick look, and Faris understood it perfectly. it's never mutual when Faris breaks up with people.

'well, that's good for you two, then,' Faris said, not sure what else he could say.

'what about you? suppose you're too busy being a famous artist to find a girl. guy, whichever you'd prefer I suppose.'

'still not funny.' Faris looked down into his empty coffee cup and said, 'I met someone when I was in London, actually.'

'oh?'

'guy. bit flaming, but he's good to talk to. fashion student.'

'those are the worst ones. the ones who go to art school.'

'says the graphic design student to the guy with the illustration degree.'

Tom laughed. 'I know what I'm talking about, see.' a small pause. 'it's going well, then?'

'I've only seen him twice in person.' Faris looked down into his cup again, the stuffy air of the shop drying up his throat, and coughed. 'think you can fetch me another coffee?'

Tom did, and Faris took a large sip and then continued, 'suppose it's going well, though. I'm driving down to see him again this weekend.' a pause, and then, because Faris just knew what Tom was about to suggest, he added, 'he's into original pressings and sixties psychedelia.'

–

and so, a couple of days after that, Faris makes the six hour drive down to London on a Saturday morning with a rare album that he hopes Rhys doesn't already own resting on the passenger seat in the record shop's brown paper bag. he parks at the end of Rhys' street and calls him from a phone booth.

'hello? who is this?'

'surprise.'

'hey. where are you?' Faris swears that he can hear the smile in Rhys' voice.

'parked down the road at the corner. you should come out.'

'give me a minute.'

it's five minutes later that Rhys pushes the paper bag with the record down onto the floor and slams the car door behind him. he smells like shampoo and wet hair and home cooked breakfast and his skin is still flushed red from showering. Faris wants to kiss him, but instead he just pulls him close by the shoulders and breathes his scent in deeply.

'hey again.'

'hey.' he pulls out of the parking space and takes the next right onto a busy street, not really sure where they're going. 'brought you something, it's in the bag. hope you don't already own it.'

Rhys doesn't bother with taking the record out, but instead clasps his skinny fingers around the bag's handles and beams a smile. 'it's perfect either way.' his one hand comes to rest on Faris' where it's gripping the gear shift handle.

'well,' Faris says. 'I'm here now. where do you want to go?'

'where do you want to take me?'

Faris really wants to kiss that bright smile off Rhys' face. he thinks of their first phone conversation, and the ocean, and smiles back. 'I've got an idea.'

so for what is their tenth or eleventh date, if Faris counts all those phone calls as dates, which he does, he takes Rhys out to the aquarium. this is early on a bright April day, so the building is mostly empty and silent and the faint light from the tanks floods out into the corridors. Faris thinks of soft smudged pastel crayons that cast Rhys' shadow down onto the dark floor when he stands and watches the fishes. he takes out his notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and starts doing hurried ink sketches of different species of tropical fish, all dynamic lines of swimming filled out with tiny overlapping scales and crude shading. while they walk from one tank to the next, he holds Rhys' hand, which is cold and clammy again, but he doesn't even think of saying anything this time.

'my hands are cold. I know.'

'I don't mind.'

they stop walking, and Rhys goes back to watching the fishes pass by. Faris goes back to his sketches, and at first, it's more fishes, big bulky ones with googly-big bulging eyes, and then Rhys' silhouette as he stands next to one tank, face turned blue with the light. he wants to take those pastel crayons and shade in every single part of Rhys' face, the way his eyeballs glisten and the shadows of his lips and cheekbones. then he remembers that conversation again, the new galaxy that he'd ended up drawing out, and Faris spends a good twenty minutes working on an only partially referenced Capricorn.

'it's really strange to think that life came from the ocean,' Rhys says when they're standing in front of the whale tank. 'that these guys and humans have a common ancestor.'

Faris shrugs and doesn't really know what to say to that, but he tucks his notebook back into his jacket either way. 'guess it is. strange, I mean.'

Rhys knocks on the glass of the tank, thicker than the width of his arm. it makes a dull thumping sound.

'I don't think you should be doing that.'

'pretty sure the glass here is like, triple bulletproof. don't think my knocking is going to do any harm.'

'it disturbs the animals. there's a sign somewhere here that says that.'

'oh.' Rhys rests his flat hand against the glass. against the blue light of the tank, it looks black.

Faris places his own next to it and looks at the contrast of how big it is when compared to Rhys'. suddenly, he feels like Rhys is this small, fragile thing, so easy to hurt or break. he's not exactly sure whether he wants to protect Rhys from ever getting broken or whether he wants to be the one doing the breaking, and that's one of these fucked up thoughts that coil in his gut and make Faris feel all too self-aware again, the kind of thought that makes him almost understand where the speculations about his mental health come from.

the two of them stay like that for a long time, silent save for the chatter and the drumming of the footsteps from a family passing the tank somewhere behind them at one point, only amplified by the empty air and the glass. Faris feels like he's in a cave, a bright, cool cave surrounded by water.

'do you believe in mermaids?'

'huh?'

'mermaids. whether you believe they exist.'

Faris laughs. 'seems like a strange question to ask out of the blue like that.' behind the dark of his fingers against the glass, he watches part of a heavy whale body drift past.

'I figured it made sense. whales and humans and common ancestors, mermaids seemed to fit in.'

'suppose it makes sense if you look at it like that.'

'you didn't answer my question.' Rhys removes his hand from the glass and says, a little quieter, 'because I do.'

'why?' Faris pulls his own hand back as well, only now feels how cold his skin has gotten, and adds, ''m not judging or anything, just wondering. seems like a strange thing to believe.'

'well, most of the ocean is still unexplored. you can't really say for sure they aren't real.'

'I didn't know that.'

'I read it on a sign somewhere back there.' Rhys laughs.

a pause. Faris thinks back to his very own galaxy yet again, to the constellation he called the mermaid, really just an abstract congregation of little black dots that could be anything when he's being realistic about it. 'maybe mermaids do exist.' really, mermaids could be anything. 'doubt they'd be human women with huge tits and fishtails if they do, though.'

'no one's really said that they're beautiful in the original stories. just that they lure fishermen out to drown with their voices.'

Faris watches another whale drift by, or maybe the same one as before. he thinks of something he'd heard years ago, from an ex, or maybe his mother, he isn't sure, that back in the day, sailors used to mistake manatees, those hideous, misshapen creatures, for mermaids. 'mermaids are cunts, aren't they.'

'guess so.' Rhys smiles, his face illuminated by the blue light, and reaches his hand out to take Faris'.

Faris accepts. there's another silence, shorter this time. 'hey.'

'hey.' Rhys' face seems too close to his own, suddenly, even with the six-odd inches of height difference between them.

it seems trite and obvious, Faris realises that, but he brings his other hand up to Rhys' face either way and strokes the strands of his fringe from his eyes. he leans down, close enough to touch their foreheads together, and this time, when he says, 'hey,' his lips are this close to brushing Rhys'.

'hey.' Rhys' eyes dart to the side, into the corridor, where Faris already knows no one is watching them from. 'what are you waiting for?'

then the gap between their lips is gone. Rhys' mouth is soft and colder than Faris' own, the same way that his hands are cold. he tastes like minty toothpaste and his fingers grip tightly where he'd pressed his hand against Faris' shoulder. Faris can hear his breath, feel the soft little trembles in his hands, and the heat that rises to his cheek where Faris still has his fingers pressed against the soft skin.

it's over after a couple of split seconds. when Faris pulls back and opens his eyes, Rhys is still there in front of him, looking even more small and vulnerable than before. Faris catches himself thinking just how easy it would be to press him into the nearest wall and trap him there, and eat at his mouth and kiss him the way he wants to, but he doesn't. 'so.'

'so.' Rhys quirks the corners of his mouth into a quick smile. 'are we going to keep walking, then?'

–

he takes Rhys out to eat at this little Taiwanese restaurant later that day, and then drops him off in front of his parents' house, after more kisses in his parked car with a crackly old My Bloody Valentine tape playing on the stereo and Faris' fingers digging into Rhys' shoulders so tightly that it must hurt, if the pained little noises that escape from Rhys' kiss-swollen lips are anything to go by. he doesn't dare to let up, though, wants to keep his hands from roaming under the thin fabric of Rhys' shirt like they could break him that easily, and mainly wants to keep him right there. the whole time, when he's slowly kissing from Rhys' mouth over his cheeks and jaw to his neck, Faris has the urge to mark Rhys as his with his teeth, to confirm that this is really happening, but he doesn't do anything of that sort. the kisses by themselves are enough to make Rhys squirm in his seat and gasp from the back of his throat, though, clearly eager for it even when his soft moans are tinged with the pain of being caught in Faris' grip, and that's all that Faris needs to feel satisfied.

that night, he spends yet another night in the study crouched over his sketchbook, and by the time the sun comes up, he's done nothing but fill ten pages with drawings of various species of mermaids.

Faris may be a little bit obsessive.


	2. bodies

it's summer when Rhys takes the train all the way up north to visit Faris, the part of the year when the sky outside is dusky until midnight and the trees out in the orchard are beginning to grow this year's apples. this is after a lot more phone conversations about nothing and everything, after Faris has spent almost every weekend making the long drive to London so he could see Rhys, take him out to dinner or gallery openings of artists he admires or foreign cinemas, on multiple occasions even booking himself a hotel room so he could get Rhys for two days instead of just one. there's been more kisses, too, stolen away in dark corners when they were both certain that no one was looking, while they were walking the London streets late at night in the dark spaces between the halos of lanterns, or in Faris' car while the stereo played music loud enough to drown Rhys' soft little noises in it. multiple times, with the flavour of black coffee and toast and Rhys' cigarettes and his breath mints during early mornings in budget hotels with Rhys' hands threading through his still damp hair.

Faris thinks he may be obsessed with the way Rhys kisses, how he gets really into it. he doesn't have the soft full lips perfect to bite at or suck into his mouth that Faris' ex girlfriends (or his ex boyfriend, or Tom, on one occasion) had, but he's enthusiastic about it, his mouth always wet and wide open to let Faris eat at it or fuck it with his own tongue. Faris likes the way the rest of his body reacts, too, the way the skin of his arms prickles with raised soft hairs and goosebumps when Faris holds his wrist and strokes along his arm and how his face flushes bright pink and hot to the touch. sometimes, during an especially heated snogging session, Rhys squirms and slowly pushes his hips into Faris' where he's seated in his lap or pressed into the mattress beneath him, and that in turn makes Faris want to peel his clothes off and fuck him, slow and deep, mainly to see how much he'd love that if just Faris' tongue in his mouth is enough to get him that wound up.

Faris fucking hates the word snogging, too, but that's exactly what they're doing, snogging like a couple of teenagers. really, as much as Faris has this uncomfortable tendency to see his relationships through rose-coloured glasses in that early stage he's in with Rhys right now, he's never held off on sex with them for that long. he's been with Rhys for over three months by the time that he calls and tells Faris that he's booked a train to come see him, and he's never even touched any part of Rhys that wasn't his face, his shoulders or his arms and hands. then, on the other hand, though, there's a part of him that's scared of going any further with Rhys, as if treating him like any other human would somehow break him or scare him off, and maybe, the self-aware part of Faris thinks, he's really got a problem with romanticising this thing he has with Rhys, with romanticising Rhys as a person, but then, it's not as if Faris listens to himself.

so for the moment, he's content with where they are, with listening to Rhys' shallow breathing and his little gasps of 'god', 'fuck', and 'god, Faris', with feeling his heartbeat pulse faster under the thin white skin of his wrists and his throat and the taste of his lips and teeth and tongue and the soft inside of his mouth, the way he kisses. sometimes Faris thinks he's addicted to Rhys' kisses, some sort of insatiable appetite for him.

one night, when he's just gotten home after he'd taken Rhys to see a play and spent a long twenty minutes with him in the back seat of his car, he looks it up on the internet, _basorexia_ , Latin, a pathological want to be kissed. he writes the word into one corner of the canvas he's spent a ridiculous time on ever since that second time in the aquarium, hours and days of scrawling and sketching over the sound of Rhys' soft voice on the phone talking and retelling strange stories he'd read years and years ago. a good portion of the canvas is Rhys, vague outlines of his hands or his face, of how he looks in the half-dark of a film theatre when his eyes keep darting away from the screen to look at Faris instead or of his lips when they're swollen and blotchy dark with bruises, and then the rest of it is mainly what his hands do while Faris listens to him talk about forest spirits or Greek gods or star-crossed lovers, aimless doodles to the sound of Rhys' voice and soft sketches of mythological creatures. mermaids, too, the traditional fish-women and then people with bulgy-eyed fish faces and claws and webbed feet, ugly old crones with the lower halves of cuttlefish or deep-sea creatures, grotesque birth defects, _sirenomeliacs_ , hoaxes, the Fiji mermaid, the upper half of an infant's skeleton fused with the lower half of a fish's. some mornings, when his drawing hand is cold and going numb from how much it aches with cramps, Faris looks at the last night's work on the canvas and finds that it's nothing but Rhys and myths, and even then, that in some points, he's not even sure where one ends and the other begins, like Rhys is a part of all the stories he tells.

the day that Rhys comes to see him, he's spent the entire night and most of the day before working on the canvas, putting more intricate details into it where he'd forgotten them before and adding yet more mermaids, more vague memories of Rhys, of the way he tells the private little things about himself, just dropping them like that, when they've been on the phone for so long that Faris' ear aches from listening to him talk for so long and it almost feels like there aren't hundreds of miles between them, like he doesn't want to keep any secrets.

Faris does, he doesn't want Rhys to know any of the violent thoughts that run through his mind some days, the ones that he turns into what the critics say are his best pieces.

he scrawls, 'he treated me like you treat a doll,' into one corner, so small it's nearly illegible, a thing that Rhys told him one night so late that it was almost morning again, and to which Faris didn't know what to say. in a way, it's how he feels about Rhys, too, like he's a fragile porcelain doll, something to handle with care. he remembers what Rhys had said after that, 'he took me out when he wanted to play and threw me away when he was done,' and that stings in his chest and his throat, just a little.

Faris hates this part of the early part of relationships, the part when he's actually feeling empathy for the other person. he keeps drawing, though, things he remembers that Rhys mentioned the day before yesterday or maybe last week or last month, places he's never been to and memories that aren't his own. really, Faris knows that it's silly, that the rational part of him is getting sick over the other part acting like a lovesick teenager and that he should probably get some sleep before he has to fetch Rhys from the station the next day, but it's been nearly two weeks since he last got to see Rhys and that irrational part is virtually aching for him.

that night, Faris catches himself thinking a thing which he's been thinking an awful lot the past few weeks, wishing that he had synaesthesia so he could possibly try to capture the way Rhys kisses and try to fill the void that way. sometimes he can't stand himself for how much of a sap he is in that early stage.

–

when he drives down to the station the next day, Faris is twenty minutes late. his hair is still wet by the time he gets out of the car and pulls Rhys into a tight hug, and his fingers still black with ink, stained so deeply that just soap won't clean them, but Rhys doesn't seem to notice either, or even be bothered by the fact that he'd been kept waiting. instead, he reaches for Faris' jaw and leans up to kiss him, almost painfully, and Faris can't help but sigh and relax and deepen the kiss, and he's really glad that no one else is there at the station to watch him.

'hey.'

'hey. missed you.'

'yeah. I can tell.' Faris laughs and bends down to kiss Rhys again, just briefly. 'how was your journey?'

'relaxing. slept most of the way through it,' Rhys says, with that soft little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and suddenly Faris is all too aware of it, of the way his hair is sleep-flat on one side of his head and his eyes are swollen with tiredness, but even then, it doesn't make him any less appealing. 'I'm really hungry, though.'

'so that means you want me to take you out, then?'

'well, I wouldn't say no to that.'

so Faris does, he takes Rhys to the exact same restaurant that he's taken all his exes to, a dim little place in a side street ran by French people who serve Italian food and only ever play the same 80s station on their radio. the place is a bit ran down, most of the tables scratched with carved names or burned with the butts of cigarettes stubbed out on them and the smell of cooking grease hangs heavy over the room, but the food is excellent, 'probably the best in town,' Faris tells Rhys. they sit side by side in a booth in a far dark corner and while they wait for their food, Faris slides his hand over to cover Rhys' on the cracked vinyl of the seat. they talk nonsense, and it's familiar, and perfect, and when he's certain that everyone who might possibly see them is too preoccupied with their food, Faris kisses Rhys with the taste of Arrabbiata sauce in his mouth, and even when the rational part of him already knows that this part isn't going to last, because it never does, he still can't help but think, yes, this, _this_ is it.

he tells this to Rhys after they've finished eating but before he asks for the bill, when they're still sipping on red wine. Rhys is going on about this band that he'd seen in concert a couple of days earlier, and in the flickering low light of the single candle on the table his face seems softer, the excited glow in his eyes all the more obvious. Faris feels like he's looking at some sort of modern art installation.

'god,' he says, slowly stroking one thumb along the bony ridge of Rhys' knuckles, 'you're pretty much perfect, you know that.'

Rhys laughs, soft and quiet. 'didn't. but I'm glad.' he takes a small sip from his glass and says, half into the glass, 'you too.'

Faris feels like a complete sap, like a cliché of what people think love must be like, and he doesn't think he could possibly feel any better.

–

after they've paid for their food and left the restaurant, they wander through the streets for a little longer. the sky is still only dusky and the yellow light of the lanterns turns everything comfortable and warm. there's still people on the streets, people Faris vaguely recognises from years earlier and who he half hopes don't recognise him, but he holds Rhys' hand either way, feels it warmer than normally, with drunkenness or the dry summer air, maybe. they listen to the soft lull of conversations and feet tapping the cobblestone streets around them, underlaid by the twang of music coming from a small bar, and watch the light fall out from the windows up above like halos, some illusion or aura from a myth. Rhys' face is glowing in the bright light of the street lights and the soft light of the moon and the flickers from above, and Faris thinks of angels. Rhys' smile glows too, big and bright and tipsy, like the orange cherry of the cigarette he sporadically sucks on, and it almost seems like he can't stop it.

'if you keep making that face, it's going to get stuck like that.'

'I'm just really happy, that's all.'

'what's there to be happy about?'

'everything. life. us. you know.'

'yeah. I know.'

they keep walking and eventually they end up kissing on a park bench under the bright circle of a lantern. the park is as good as empty, only interrupted by a number of drunken teenagers, a woman walking a dog and, at one point, a bat flapping its wings through the trees. Faris wishes he had brought his sketchbook.

'didn't even know we had bats here.'

'they're pretty much everywhere. like birds, you know,' Faris says and shrugs, and Rhys' mouth is open and wet just a few inches away, so he kisses it again.

'god,' Rhys says after a few seconds, breath soft and already coming out faster than normal, 'I can't believe I'm snogging you on a park bench. I feel like I'm sixteen.'

Faris laughs and nods and pushes his head down so he can kiss at the part of Rhys' jaw where it joins up with his neck. 'yeah, but much better.'

'that too. better than actually being sixteen.' Rhys squirms a little when Faris kisses his neck, and then bites at it, because the pale skin is right there and radiating soft warmth and it seems like the obvious thing to do. 'hey, hey, no using teeth.'

'but you taste so good,' Faris says, mock offended, and immediately loathes himself a little for it.

Rhys doesn't say anything to that, just brings their lips together again, and that in turn is more than satisfying by itself, the soft depth of his mouth that still tastes just a bit like wine. 'I think I want to go home,' he says against Faris' lips after he pulls back just a bit. 'your home, I mean. not back to London.'

–

so they do, Faris drives the long way back to the woods with his hands just a bit unsteady on the steering wheel and his eyes just slightly unwilling to stay focussed on the road, and that's only one part tipsiness and then one part having Rhys chattering on about something in the passenger seat.

'so,' Rhys says when he steps from the car, after what seems like a too long period of time, 'so this is yours, then.'

'pretty much. my parents', technically.' Faris smiles and looks at the whitewash of the walls where it's already peeling off at the corners and at the dark windows of the kitchen and the study, at the front of the house. 'the heating's broken again and the phone reception is crap, but you know, I think it's nice.'

'seems like the right kind of house for a mad recluse artist.' Rhys laughs at his own comment, just for a split second. 'no, it's really nice, actually. seems a little lonely, though.'

'not really.'

Rhys starts to say something that sounds a lot like the beginning of 'mad recluse artist,' but Faris shuts him up with a kiss.

'come on, let's go inside. cold out here.'

the house is colder than the crisp air outside, actually, the lack of heating and the blinds being down most of the day having turned it into a dark icebox-like space, but Rhys doesn't complain. Faris shows him around the house, opening doors and telling him that the study is off-limits, 'I'm an artist, remember. got to have a mysterious side.'

this is a thing that Faris has, he doesn't have any issues with showing his history and his past relationships off to an audience of thousands of people, but he still doesn't want anyone to know what he's feeling at the very moment, especially not Rhys. maybe this is why he's had more than one ex girlfriend telling him that he's a cold-hearted cunt, that he doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself, but then on the other hand it's always seemed redundant to him to put more effort than necessary into a relationship.

Rhys doesn't seem to be offended, though, just laughs and says, 'mysterious artist, yeah. very mysterious to snog your boyfriend in a public park.'

'it's an image I've got to uphold, yeah. should remember to stop doing that kind of thing, maybe.'

'I didn't mean you've got to stop with that.' Rhys leans up to kiss him once again, just quickly, and then smiles. 'let's go to bed. I'm really tired.'

'all right,' Faris says, 'if you say so.' he presses his hands onto Rhys' back, where it dips into his waist, and kisses him again. there's the quiet burn of excitement and nervousness in his stomach where it maybe shouldn't be, and a flutter in the back of his throat that shouldn't have appeared just from Rhys' words.

Rhys strips down to his briefs before he slips under the covers and shuts the lights off, and Faris didn't think he could possibly be this excited over just the sight of this much soft pale skin at once. he's thought about it, briefly, scrawled it absent-mindedly into his notebook at one point, Rhys' ribcage as a stretch of piano keys mirroring the piano keys of his skinny fingers. thought about it not so briefly in the shower, a number of times, of how Rhys' bare skin would feel against his, of the noises he makes when Faris is kissing the jittering pulse point of his Adam's apple, but louder, breathier, vulgar with the sound of being fucked, of having those long legs squeezing down around his waist. he'd felt like a schoolboy every time wanking, desperate and clumsy, but then, in his defence it'd been over half a year since he last got to fuck anything that wasn't his own hand. now, though, Rhys is here, nearly nude and soft to the touch and so, so desirable, and Faris pulls him close with his hands grasping at his sides and searches his mouth with his own.

'hey,' Rhys whispers when they pull apart, and it seems far away, with his face barely visible in the little moonlight that's coming through the window.

'hey.' Faris runs one hand up to Rhys' ribs, not nearly as prominent as he'd imagined them, and feels his booming heart rate beneath them and the goosebumps prickling up his skin. he hopes it's not just the cold of the house that's causing them.

'your bedroom is really cold.'

'we can warm it up,' Faris whispers, low into what he presumes is the vague direction of Rhys' ear, and presses a soft kiss to what he thinks is the side of Rhys' neck.

they don't speak any more after that, Rhys twists his fingers of his one hand into the hair at the back of Faris' neck and pulls his face back toward his mouth. this time when they kiss, it's deeper and longer than earlier that day. Rhys tugs Faris' bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth and gasps when Faris shifts over to lay himself on top of him, careful not to crush his smaller body with his own weight. their chests brush and Faris strokes both his hands down Rhys' sides all the way to his thighs, wants to touch as much of that white skin as possible. his eyes are beginning to get used to the darkness, enough that he can make out his still ink-black fingers against the soft pale of Rhys' stomach, and that makes him think of piano keys again. he kisses Rhys, again and again, wants to feel his lips rush hot and swollen with blood, and in return gets thin fingers digging at his shoulders so hard it aches and harsh breaths, and slow upward thrusts of his hips, one slender leg that hooks around the back of his thigh. Rhys is whispering short syllables from the back of his throat, things of which Faris isn't sure whether or not they're meant to be words, but they're encouraging, just make him want to speed this up. he's already half hard himself, and half hard has never felt so desperate as when Rhys tugs at his hair and rocks against him, mouth gaping fish-lipped open for Faris to lick into it and swallow up his moans. he slides his fingers down further, onto Rhys' hipbones that jut out ever so slightly, and into the waistband of his briefs. the whole time, he keeps kissing Rhys, the ache forming in his jaw clouded by arousal, and he's got the briefs worked down Rhys' arse most of the way when he feels soft hands pushing at his chest.

'Faris?'

'what?'

'I think we should stop,' Rhys says, his lips bitten deep red and a sheet of sweat already forming on his forehead where his hair is askew.

'what?' Faris can't think of anything else to say, but he does stop, he pulls his hands from Rhys' skin and rolls off of him.

'I'm sorry. it's just, I can't. not tonight.'

Rhys tilts his head to look over at Faris, his pupils still blown wide with arousal and the dim light, but there's that certain trace of sadness in it again, the look that Faris had noticed on that first date in the café that had made him want to keep Rhys safe from everything. he remembers that one early morning conversation once again, the ex boyfriend who was kind of an arse, the doll one, and that just makes the need worse, the need to wrap Rhys up and prevent anything bad from happening to him ever again.

'it's all right,' Faris whispers, soft, and he's not sure if it really is. the need to protect Rhys is weighing up against the deep burning want in the pit of his stomach, and so he rolls over onto his side, away from Rhys. for a while, it stays silent, Rhys' quiet, even breaths the only sounds in the room.

he's this close to falling asleep when he hears a soft voice, 'Faris? hold me? it's cold.'

'yeah,' Faris exhales and turns over and rings his arms around Rhys' waist, even though one of them is getting awkwardly pressed into the bed. a little, he can't help but feel like the cliché of the sexually frustrated middle-aged husband, and as much as he hates clichés, he must admit that this one is obviously based in truth.

Rhys turns his head and presses a feather-soft kiss to Faris' lips, just once, and whispers, 'I'm sorry about this. it's not that I don't want it, just...'

Faris cuts him off, 'it's all right.' he rests his head on Rhys' bony shoulder, feels the skin there cold with sweat.

'not tonight.'

'I told you, it's all right.' he thinks he can hear Rhys' heartbeat, soft and even like the drums in a song of which he can't remember the name.

Rhys smiles, crooked and sad-eyed once again, and it kind of is, all right.

–

the next morning, after they've both taken cold showers, after Faris had spent an unnecessary extra five minutes under the icy spray of water having the most disappointing wank of his life, and after they'd eaten what little proper food Faris keeps in his kitchen for breakfast, Faris takes Rhys out into town. they spend the morning trawling through the shops, and once again, Faris slips his hand around Rhys' own and links their fingers together. he doesn't care who sees, this time around, almost feels determined to show off that he cares about Rhys, to himself, perhaps, or to Rhys. honestly, Faris isn't demanding in relationships, doesn't want the other person to expect too much of him and in turn doesn't expect too much of them in turn, either, but the memory of last night still stings quietly in the back of his throat, no matter how often Rhys reassured him that he's sorry and that it's not about Faris as a person. really, though, Faris isn't sure whether to blame Rhys' doll collector ex, the one that's maybe responsible for Rhys' soft, sad eyes and his smile that looks like it was glued together the wrong way, or himself because he just so happens to be attracted to the broken ones.

Faris may not be especially good at it, but he has a bit of a knack for psychoanalysis.

for lunch, he takes Rhys to a little café, one he vaguely remembers from his childhood when his family still lived here in town, the owner was a friend of his mother's. she recognises him when he orders himself a coffee, black, and then nods over at where Faris still has his fingers linked with Rhys'.

'young love, then?'

'suppose so.'

'well, to each their own.'

Faris looks over at Rhys when the café owner has shuffled away to another table and shrugs, and Rhys laughs back. maybe that's really what it is, and Faris has never been so glad that clichés exist.

after they've finished eating, they walk halfway across town to the record shop, although Tom isn't working that day, but Rhys still spends over an hour talking about music to the guy who is, and Faris listens to them while he sits on the armchair in the one corner and sketches out shapes, the air bubbles of Rhys' voice combined with the grainy lull of the record playing.

Faris does not believe in truly perfect things, knows that everything that seems like it is going to pass and fade out after months or years, but he feels like what this is, what he has with Rhys, is perfect at least for the moment.

–

it's a week until Rhys catches his train back to London, and the whole week, Faris doesn't try to push it too far again. they spend hours in Faris' bed, evenings until they're both too tired to properly kiss and just brush their lips against each other lazily instead, and mornings when they've both still got sleep sticking their eyes half together and the taste of morning breath in their mouths, or on his sofa, and on one occasion, while they're sitting at the kitchen table, but it's the same way it always was, Faris keeps his hands on Rhys' shoulders or wrapped around his wrists, and he's trying his hardest to not be dissatisfied by this. during the day, he takes Rhys out to dinner or to the cinema to see films that he himself isn't particularly interested in but that Rhys has been meaning to see for ages, but then, in the deep dark of the projection room neither of them pay much attention to what's going on on the silver screen. one day, they take the two hour train journey to the coast and sit on the shingle beach watching the waves, and at the end of that day, Rhys has red sunburn peeling from his arms and the tip of his nose and Faris has the beginnings of a deep tan. they talk, too, the same long conversations that waver between their own personal lives and faraway worlds that they have on the phone, but better, because Rhys is right there and when he says something particularly good, Faris can lean over and kiss the words straight from his mouth, and because he can watch Rhys' face, the way his eyes light up when he talks about music or when he tells Faris an old story he'd picked up years earlier. through all their conversations, Faris is scribbling absent-minded in his notebook, really just letting Rhys' voice guide his hands rather than consciously drawing.

it's compulsive, really, the same way that his need to kiss Rhys is compulsive, his need to touch Rhys and to keep him safe from harm. sometimes, Faris wonders whether that's all that emotions boil down to, deeply engraved compulsions that no one has any control over, whether love is really just a form of OCD, and like that, that's another part of the gossip he understands. so it's a compulsion that he has, something that he can't be blamed for, that causes him to be desperate for Rhys' touch and his bare skin, and it's really not his fault how deeply sexually frustrated he remains the entire week.

–

when it finally does happen, it's at the very end of that summer, just a week before Rhys' classes start up again, and Faris drives into London to take Rhys to this independent film festival. Rhys doesn't have any particular interest in independent films, but Faris does, and so he comes along, mainly to make snide comments about the plot lines and the heavy symbolism between showings, Faris assumes. he holds Rhys' hand either way, though, and kisses him on the corner of his mouth once or twice when he leans over in the middle of a film to whisper, 'this is so boring.'

Faris whispers back, 'it's art,' and Rhys pulls a face, which Faris hopes no one else notices, and says, 'doesn't mean it's not boring and confusing.'

by the time Faris has seen all the films he'd wanted to see, it's late, nearly midnight. they stand outside the small cinema and Rhys lights himself a fag, the first one in over eight hours. he exhales a long thread of smoke and Faris takes the cigarette from his skinny fingers and takes a deep drag himself. he's been trying to quit, really, for the past year or so, but it's hard, especially when Rhys has the soft aftertaste of nicotine in the back of his mouth half the time Faris kisses him, and so, he's not really been successful yet.

'you've booked a hotel for the night, then?'

'was planning on driving back now, actually. why?'

'just wondering. you think I can come along?' Rhys takes his cigarette back from Faris' hands and sucks on it once again.

'do you want to?'

'well, I've got school again starting next week, and then I'll only get to see you every few weekends.' Rhys smiles, soft and sad, and Faris leans over and kisses it off his face.

'why not. I've got my car parked around the corner.'

Rhys curls himself up in the passenger seat, and he falls asleep shortly after he's sent a text to his mum about not coming home tonight, after less than half an hour of the drive. Faris darts his eyes over to watch his face more than once while he's driving up the near empty motorway, the way his features are slack and relaxed. he doesn't talk or thrash in his sleep most nights, Faris has noticed that previously, unlike most of the other people that he's shared a bed with in the past, and that's kind of comforting, in a sense.

by the time Faris pulls up on the stretch of gravel, it's early morning, the sky already pink and blue with dawn, and it's only then that Rhys rubs his eyes and rises from where he's slumped so far down in his seat that it looks uncomfortable.

'hey.'

'hey. you tired?'

'not really. I've just woke up.' Rhys laughs, and Faris laughs back. 'thirsty, though.'

so Faris lets them both in and then goes into the kitchen to make coffee, and ginger tea for Rhys, while Rhys puts on a record and sprawls on the cracked vinyl of the couch upholstery. he straightens up when Faris comes back with two steaming cups, and then for a while, they just sit there and drink in silence.

'so,' Faris says after he's returned from the kitchen with his second coffee, 'what did you want to do then, now that you're here?'

'I don't know.' Rhys smiles, just for a split second, and then says, 'figured I'd spend another couple of days here as long as I still can.' he adds, ''m going to miss you when I go back to uni.'

they'd spent most of the summer together, really. Faris had splurged most of the money he had that wasn't going into bills on hotel rooms and train fares, because after a while, he'd had enough of driving all the way to London himself. even when he was getting too wrapped up in his art to see Rhys in person, spending days on end holed up in the study fuelled by coffee and painkillers, he still called Rhys every day and then spent an hour or two working to the sound of his voice.

'I'll miss you too,' Faris says, and really means it.

Faris always tries his hardest not to get too attached in relationships, even in that early phase, but he does get attached to the physical closeness, to the kisses and the feeling of having another body pressed against his own.

he sets his mug down on the coffee table and then catches Rhys' mouth in a soft kiss, licks past his lips and the line of his teeth and pulls a low little sound from the back of his throat.

'going to miss this,' Rhys says against his mouth quietly, and then kisses Faris in return.

then it's quiet around them, nothing but the sound of lips and tongues pushing against each other and the soft, barely audible slide of hands on skin, and Faris presses Rhys back against the vinyl of the sofa. he lets his hands wander, more than he usually would, lets them slide under the back of Rhys' thin shirt and rest on the curve of his arse, and Rhys just gasps and rolls his hips in return, the way he always does in moments like this. it's a silent agreement, of sorts, that this is happening, and Rhys slips his hands into Faris' hair and slides one thigh between Faris' own two, rubbing it against where he's already half hard in his trousers. Faris has never felt so much like a teenager before in his life. he brings one hand around to rub it against the forming bulge that strains in Rhys' tight jeans, and Rhys doesn't even make a proper sound in response, just breathes with his mouth wide open like a fish gasping for air. this is yet another one of the things that Faris likes about him, how easy it is to get him worked up, and he smiles and licks up Rhys' throat to feel his heartbeat fluttering at his Adam's apple.

'we should take this somewhere else,' Rhys says, so low that it's barely audible, and he's right, his hips are only a few inches away from the edge of the sofa.

'where do you suggest?'

'your bedroom?'

so they do, they stumble down the short way through the hallway and then settle in the mess of sheets where Faris hadn't bothered with making the bed, he hadn't been counting on this.

'nice sheets,' Rhys comments and pats the floral pattern beneath him.

'they were my nan's.'

'I can't believe you want to fuck me on a family heirloom.'

Faris laughs into the skin where he has his face pressed against the junction of Rhys' neck and shoulder, and before Rhys can say anything else, he connects their lips together again and slips Rhys' shirt up his stomach.

it becomes a bit of a blur after that, they peel off each other's clothes, one by one, and Faris feels like he's getting lost, wants to touch every new expanse of flesh that he reaches. he's got the distinct feeling that it's the same for Rhys, feels like there's more than two of his hands as they wander along his back and scratch their nails softly down his spine, and more than one mouth that kisses at his collarbone and gapes open with soft little breaths, that lets him bite its lips swollen and bloody. maybe that's it that makes this so exciting for Faris, it isn't anything new for either of them, but Rhys is _letting_ him, is nothing more than flesh-and-bone putty in his hands, and that makes him feel both powerful and more aroused than he's been in a long time.

it's that same surge of power that makes him gasp and lose his composure for a split second when he's finally got Rhys' briefs pulled off his legs and his hand tugging at Rhys' cock, already slick with precome and flushed pink, when Rhys pulls his mouth from Faris' own for just a few short seconds to whisper, 'god. I want you so bad.'

Faris thinks he keeps it hidden well, though, that Rhys doesn't notice his momentary freezing and the way his voice comes out just the slightest bit shaky when he replies, 'turn over, then?'

he hasn't felt this nervous about sex since he was a teenager, and really, he isn't sure whether 'nervous' is the right way to describe it, but there's things bubbling up in his stomach beside the slow burn of lust, tightly wound anticipation that prickles with unrest.

he takes his time with preparing Rhys, slowly coaxes him open with his mouth and lube-slick fingers, and he only stops when Rhys is a squirming, mewling mess curled into the sheets and Faris is a little worried that he might come just from this, from having three of Faris' fingers pressing into the tight muscle of his insides and his tongue tracing along the outer rim of his hole. when he pulls back, he savours the sight in front of him, Rhys, in equal parts tense and boneless, with his face pushed into the sheets and contorted into an expression of which Faris isn't sure whether it's agony or ecstasy or perhaps a mix of the two. he lets his eyes wander down the skin of Rhys' back and his arse, sees the normal white glowing softly pink in the early morning light, and he thinks of blood again, rushing under the skin to tint it.

nothing but a normal bodily reaction caused by a heart pumping faster, the same way that love and want are compulsions, and sometimes Faris thinks he may be too much of a realist.

there's something enticing about it though, about seeing all those involuntary reactions to him, and Faris lays himself on top of Rhys, careful not to put his full weight onto him, and presses the head of his cock, somewhat slick with just how aroused he is, against Rhys' hole, not quite pushing in. he can feel the body heat radiate from Rhys' skin, the cannonball-booming of his heartbeat where their ribcages push against each other, and his own pulse pounding where he has fingers ringed around the base of his dick. this feels like being on drugs, like having every nerve cell in his body overstimulated, Faris thinks.

'god,' Rhys whispers once again when his fingers bite into the sheets, probably the only coherent syllable to have left his mouth over the past few minutes, 'god,' 'god,' 'god,' over and over again, and it seems blasphemous in the most satisfying way possible.

Faris tilts his head further forward to lick at Rhys' lips once more, and when Rhys composes himself enough for a moment to whisper out, 'I need it,' he swallows the words up.

he can feel the heat coming from Rhys' face as well, a deeper pink than the rest of his body, and see how wide his pupils are blown, so big they make his eyes seem black. all those involuntary reactions that signify how close he is, all because of him, for him, and that's yet another thing that makes Faris feel powerful.

'hey, can you turn onto your back again? I want to watch your face when you come.'

Faris is careful when he lifts Rhys' legs to his waist and pushes in, more careful than he's been with anyone else, because no matter how turned on he may be, this is still Rhys, small, fragile Rhys whose insides feel like hot, tight velvet and whose arms cling around Faris' neck to the point where it's uncomfortable. when he's all the way sheathed inside Rhys, Faris pauses for a second to compose himself before he starts to thrust, and Rhys rolls his hips back against him and moans, soft and breathy. Faris' hands are gripping at his thighs so firmly that he's half worried it could leave bruises, and also half hoping, because that would be proof that Rhys is _his_ , that he's the one who's responsible for the way Rhys brings one hand down to circle his fingers around his cock and how his moans are slowly growing louder. in the back of his mind, he's got this desire to simply fold Rhys in half and ride him, to see how much louder he can get, fuck him into exhaustion, but he isn't sure if that's okay, and so he settles for leaning forward and kissing Rhys' moans right from his mouth.

'you should say something,' Rhys whispers, voice tinged with sex.

'like what?'

'I don't know. something. it's so quiet.' another moan escapes from his mouth, louder than before, when Faris thrusts his hips at a slightly different angle.

'you're not exactly quiet.'

'know I'm not. you are, though.'

and it's true, Faris has never been the type to be loud or otherwise particularly enthusiastic during sex. he likes seeing what he can do to people, yes, likes to watch their faces and feel them turn into a contracting, twitchy mess around his dick when orgasm hits them, but he himself prefers to keep a straight face, the same way as he does in everyday life. he lets his eyes trail along Rhys' body, from his swollen lips over the forming bruises at his neck and surrounding one perked nipple where Faris hadn't been able to stop himself from sinking his teeth in and pinching at the flesh, all the way to where he's hard and leaking over his own fingers and to where Faris is pushed balls-deep inside of him. he's all blood rush-pink and glittering with sweat, and Faris doesn't think he's ever seen anything as beautiful in his life.

'you look really pretty when I fuck you,' he whispers onto the shell of Rhys' ear, and punctuates his comment with a particularly deep thrust, which is enough to get Rhys dragging the fingernails of his other hand down his back and the heat of his insides to contract that little bit more tightly. 'and you feel amazing.'

Rhys' face contorts from its previous grimace of ecstasy and pain into something else, and he laughs, even through the harsh breaths that Faris' thrusts press out of him. when his breath catches for long enough to get actual words out of him, he whispers, 'you're bad at talking dirty, you know that?', and like that, he pulls Faris' face against his own to kiss him again.

–

later, when they're done, Rhys curls himself around Faris, his face slack and relaxed as if he's on drugs, and Faris holds him with his arms around his waist. again, Rhys' weight is pushing his left arm uncomfortably into the mattress, but this time, Faris' brain is too clouded for him to care, hyped up on the same post-orgasm high that's evident on Rhys' face.

'god, I love you,' Rhys says, after what seems like a too long period of silence.

'love you back,' Faris replies and kisses the corner of Rhys' mouth, because it's the closest to his actual lips he can get without having to move.

almost, it feels like an obligation to say it, because Faris doesn't believe in the power of words like that, doesn't consider it necessary, but he supposes that it's true, that all those compulsions and reactions really combine to what people might call love.

Rhys moves closer and throws one leg across Faris' thighs, and Faris can feel where his skin is cold and sticky with sweat, can feel traces of Rhys' come slowly drying on the bottom of his own stomach, the sheets ever so slightly sticking to his back and strands of his hair clinging to his forehead. this is the part about sex that he hates, the aftermath, the mess of bodily fluids and the cloying smell that hangs in the room.

'really need a shower, though.'

'later,' Rhys says, so softly that it's barely more than a whisper, 'sleep first?'

he presses his face into the curve of Faris' neck and Faris must find that he can't argue with that, that no matter how disgusting he feels, he's not particularly in the mood to get up and rinse the sweat from his skin, either.

the next time he wakes up, it's early afternoon, and Rhys is still mostly asleep, only occasionally muttering noises which aren't really words. even with sex-messy hair and sticky skin, Faris still feels the beginnings of arousal pooling in the pit of his stomach once more when he looks at him and feels their bare skin push together, and so he wakes Rhys with careful little kisses all over his face and tender fingers stroking down his spine.

they have sex a second time in the shower, even though Faris still hadn't bothered with getting the heating fixed, so it's a bit uncomfortable, but the contrast between the icy spray of water and the soft heat inside Rhys is chilling in the best way possible and it doesn't take very long for either of them to come.

Faris drives Rhys to the station the morning after, so he can catch the train back to London, after they've fucked two more times, first after dinner consisting of frozen pizza and half a bottle of wine, Rhys on his hands and knees with his head turned awkwardly so Faris could bite at his mouth, and then early in the morning while it was still half dark, slowly with sleepy eyes and Rhys grinding down against Faris, riding him.

he wears a scarf that particular morning, borrowed from Faris' closet to hide the dark bruises and pink bite marks on his neck and avoid any awkward looks. they say goodbye hurriedly that morning, partially because it's only five more minutes until Rhys has to catch his train and partially because they'd established it early on that neither of them could stand the cliché tearful farewell.

'I'm really going to miss you,' Rhys admits after one last quick kiss outside the station's main building, and he lets his hand linger on Faris' hip for perhaps a bit longer than would have been strictly necessary. 'miss this.'

'me too,' Faris replies, and he really does mean it in both regards, knows already how much he's going to miss being able to have Rhys close any day and also, how hard it's going to be to go without the constant physical contact now.

when he settles in the study that night, he gets out his notebook and scribbles out snapshots of Rhys, of his spine and how tense his shoulder blades go when Faris pushes into him slowly, of what he looks like when he's collapsed in the sheets and already half asleep, exhausted from being fucked, the face he makes when he comes. he fills multiple pages with them, pressed so close they start to push into each other, overlapping and intersecting, but when he's done, he almost feels like he can deal with going the next couple of weeks without Rhys.

–

things change after that, but not by a lot. Faris' trips to London get rarer, but he books a hotel room every single time now, arrives Friday at noon and leaves Sunday night. he spends the days with Rhys like he normally would, takes him into town and out for dinner, and spends hours upon hours getting lost inside conversations with him, but now he ends up taking him back to his hotel every single night, lets him spend the night in his bed only so they can fuck again the next morning. really, in retrospect Faris doesn't understand how they could have possibly waited to do this for so long, because Rhys is all pale, eager flesh and contact-hungry hands that press and grasp and grip so tightly at Faris' back or the thin fabric of the hotel room sheets, he's needy and open for Faris to take.

one week in mid-October, Faris has another exhibition at yet another large gallery, consisting mainly of previously unseen old sketches and what little work he'd done in the past few months that hadn't been centred around Rhys, and they spend most of that week together in his hotel room, not even necessarily having sex, but just talking for hours on end. they order room service and take out and eat in bed, kissing with the taste of white wine and cheap Chinese in their mouths until one of them gets carried away and they end up all over each other once again.

the thing is, Rhys is excellent in bed, even if he doesn't have the most amount of expertise or the ability to take Faris' cock all the way into the back of his throat the way some of his previous hookups could. he's more than eager about it, though, all hips that roll and push back against every thrust and quick hands that try to grope and stroke as much as they can at once, except for a number of times when Faris gathers his wrists together above his head and keeps them there, tied together crudely with a scarf or a discarded t-shirt, and rides him into the mattress. Rhys is long legs that wrap around Faris' waist to try and get him in as deeply as possible and a wide open gaping swollen mouth that's all wet heat and a slick tongue and long, breathy groans that run all the way down Faris' spine. more than once, Faris finds himself forced to push the palm of his hand over Rhys' mouth, in an attempt to silence him for the sake of whoever is in the next hotel room over, but really, he enjoys the power trip, knowing that he can make Rhys moan like a cheap hooker, that Rhys will let himself be restrained and fucked relentlessly hard only by him. sometimes he finds himself tempted to call Rhys a slag, too, and then sometimes he does, slag or bitch or whore. he'll grip Rhys' arms or thighs or hips a little bit harder than what is necessary, leaving dark finger-shaped bruises, or bite at his chest or the soft skin along his spine where he knows no one will see, marking his territory. the best part about this isn't knowing that Rhys is his, though, it's the fact that Rhys lets him, that he loves this just as much as Faris does.

after, when they're done and the broken blood vessels under Rhys' translucent skin are beginning to bloom into bruises, Faris always holds him tight, tells him that he's beautiful and lovely and showers soft kisses all over his face and neck, lets him know that he loves him, and eventually, once he's recovered from his orgasm enough, leads him into the shower so they can get on with their day. Faris loves this too, loves seeing Rhys' post-sex slack face light up slowly when he whispers the words back, loves knowing that Rhys is comfortable enough to do this with him. it hasn't happened again since that first time, Rhys has never again frozen up or asked him to stop, but once in a while he still gets that sad glint in his smile, thrashes and whimpers in his sleep some nights, and that in turn makes Faris feel needed, obligated to keep him safe and happy and close.

Faris is not normally the type that enjoys fixing people, just finds it objectively fascinating – and okay, maybe a bit appealing – to watch them break down and deteriorate, but he wouldn't trade this thing he has with Rhys for anything in the world.

it gets worse when they're apart, too. it's always been, of course, even with the phone calls, but now it's more painful, an ache for physical contact that hadn't been as apparent before and that can't possibly be satisfied by the touch of his hand alone. there's concern somewhere in there too, over the thought that something could happen, that somewhere across the country, Rhys could be lonely or caught up in bad memories or twisting into his sheets with nightmares, and there's no way he can help. sometimes Faris hates that early stage that appears to be dragging out longer and longer, but still, more than once he finds himself counting down the days until he gets to see Rhys again, and immediately hates himself for it. he spends endless hours with Rhys on the phone, too, more than before, talking nonsense through whole nights. sometimes not even talking, just hanging on both ends of the line while they go about their day, so Rhys can hear the faint scrawling of Faris' pen and the crackle of the record he has on across the hall in the living room while Faris hears the record Rhys has playing in his room. it's a bit too much like that teenage obsession of first love, Faris realises that, and maybe a bit codependent, but Faris loves it more than anything, to hear Rhys talk on the phone even if it's just about simple things, to hear parts of his life. one time, in the dead of the night, listening to Rhys' ragged breathing and his running commentary while he was working two fingers inside of himself, but even then it had only been marginally more satisfying than his own imagination, had only made the need for Rhys in person worse.

Faris really fucking hates the early stage.

–

for Christmas, Faris takes the train down to London once more to spend the holidays there with Rhys. he'd bothered with actually getting the heating fixed sometime in October, when the cold at night had become unbearable, but it had broken down yet again at the beginning of December. Faris really fucking hates this piece of shit old house at times, but then, it had given Rhys an excuse and an explanation to invite Faris down to his family's Christmas, and so, at times Faris really fucking loves this piece of shit old house.

he ends up sleeping in the spare room at Rhys' parents' house for the three days that he's staying, but each night, when the lights are dead and the rest of the house is quiet, Rhys slips under the covers next to him and then they spend a few hours kissing and whispering between them, about nothing and everything.

'fuck, I've missed this,' Faris admits, the very first night, when he has Rhys lying halfway on top of him and the tips of his fingers exploring the skin under the back of Rhys' thin t-shirt and the waistband of his briefs that he's already more than familiar with. the last time he'd seen Rhys was nearly three weeks ago, and since then, he'd been itching for this, to have him there again.

'me too,' Rhys replies, half into Faris' open mouth, 'missed you.'

Faris pushes one of his hands all the way up Rhys' shirt, feels the skin already hot with blood rushing underneath it, and strokes it along his spine. 'want to fuck you.' he punctuates the comment with a soft kiss to that one certain spot at Rhys' neck, the one that's sure to make his breath go shallow and his heart rate speed up.

'you know we can't,' Rhys says, but even then, he responds by biting at the patch of skin behind Faris' ear and letting his hips snap forward. 'not here.'

Faris turns his head the slightest bit to check his watch where he'd taken it off and put it onto the bedside table earlier. 'it's one AM. don't think anyone is going to hear us.'

Rhys presses a kiss to the spot that he'd just bitten into, and another kiss below it, yet another, and says, 'it's still kind of wrong, fucking with my parents down the hall.'

Faris has to admit that he can't really argue with that. he'd met Rhys' family for the first time earlier that day, both his parents and his younger brother, sixteen, and his two goldfish as well, Therese and Thomas. he supposes they're good people, even though the conversation he'd had over dinner with them had been painfully awkward, consisting mainly of inquiries about his art and whether it even makes enough money to finance a living, and during which he'd consistently had to remind himself that he was, officially, considered nothing more than one of Rhys' close friends here. Faris supposes that regardless of whether or not Rhys would tell them about the full extent of their relationship, they're not the types of people he'd want to possibly overhear him and their son having sex.

Rhys strokes one hand down the side of Faris' face before kissing his mouth, yet again, and adds, 'let's just keep doing this, yeah? snogging like teens.'

'yeah,' Faris breathes, 'all right,' and he's not completely sure if it really is, but he removes his hands from Rhys' clothes and wraps them around his waist, manoeuvres the both of them to lie next to each other on their sides. it would be so easy to just not listen to him, to use those hands on his waist to press him down and shut him up and simply take what he wants, and that's the kind of thought that scares the self-aware part of him and that he sends away into the darkest corner of his mind. he keeps the hands at Rhys' waist and feels the edges of his ribs through the cotton of his t-shirt and reminds himself that while this is Rhys, fragile, soft Rhys who would be so easy to take and break down, this is also his Rhys, lovable, amazing Rhys who makes his heart beat faster than he wants it to, who he wants to protect from ever getting hurt by anything again.

Rhys hums in the back of his throat and presses one hand to Faris' chest. he closes the gap between their mouths and leans over to shut off the bedside lamp, and then when he pulls back, he whispers, 'tell me something.'

'mm, all right.' Faris presses him closer and licks at his mouth and then says right into it, 'did I ever tell you about the time I almost drowned?'

–

Boxing Day, the two of them have the house to themselves after the rest of Rhys' family had decided to go for a walk around the neighbourhood. they sit in the back garden, bundled up in coats and scarves, on a bench under a pine tree that's grown so tall and thick it's impossible for anyone to see them from the house. this is one of those fairy tale winter days, the kind that are pictured on biscuit tins and Christmas cards, when the snow falls in heavy cotton candy flakes and covers everything in a layer of icy cold sugar frosting. Rhys has somehow ended up in Faris' lap, upper body twisted so he can kiss at his chapped lips and keep his woollen-gloved hands cradling his neck, at some point during a long conversation about their past holidays, last year and the year before that. currently, though, they're not so much talking as Faris is sucking at Rhys' mouth, letting his tongue slide over the smoother flesh of his bottom lip while his hands are struggling to get under Rhys' coat to get a better hold of his hips.

'your gloves are really cold,' Rhys mumbles into a short moment between kisses when Faris gets his hands on what vaguely feels like bare warm flesh, snowflakes sticking to his eyelashes and the strands of his fringe that peek from the ridiculous hat he's wearing.

'sorry,' Faris replies, and laughs, and pulls his hands back to pull the tight leather off of them. he snakes them back into Rhys' coat and up his sweater, covers the skin on his hipbones, and asks, 'better?'

'mm, yeah,' Rhys says, really more of a breathe, and then works his fingers into Faris' scarf to pull him closer and kiss him again. 'I think I want to spend New Year's at yours.'

'not stopping you.' Faris grins, a little, because he knows what Rhys is thinking of, is thinking of the exact same thing. 'heating's broken, though.'

'still?'

'again.' he lets his fingernails scratch at the soft skin under his hands, and once again, he can't help but think of how easy it would be, just how much smaller Rhys is and how fragile he is in his hands, how easy it would be just to push him down or press him against a wall and take what he wants, and once again, that's a thought that the self-aware part of him sends into that far deep dark corner of his mind he doesn't dare to go into.

'well, I can help you keep warm,' Rhys replies, and then swats at one hand on his hips, 'hey, hey, go easy on me here,' and that in turn just makes Faris want to scratch harder.

he doesn't, though, just rubs his fingertips over where he knows he'd just left little lines in Rhys' skin, and kisses him so he can stop thinking for a second. Rhys is heavy and smouldering with body heat in his lap, body heat that's coming from flushed skin that's only a few thin layers of clothes away, and Faris pulls his hands away from Rhys' hips once again, out of his clothes, and instead wraps his arms around his waist once more and pushes his face into the wool of Rhys' scarf where it smells like skin and sweat and the cologne he wears.

'you want to know what's funny, I don't usually fall in love.'

Faris has never been the type to emote a lot, but he lets it out now, feels like he has to, in a way. for his own sake, mostly. 'but you, you're lovely, you're pretty much perfect. I hope you know that.'

Rhys laughs, a little, and presses his gloved hands tighter into Faris' shoulders. 'love you back.'

'I just want to keep you forever. keep you close and protect you from everything.'

'I don't think I need to be protected.'

'pre-emptively. just make sure I never have to actually protect you, I want to keep you safe. keep you happy.'

'you're a massive sap.'

'I know.' Faris leans up to kiss Rhys' chin, and then puts one hand onto the back of his neck and angles his head downward so he can kiss him properly.

'I like it a lot. deep emotionless artist.'

'keep it on the down low, yes?'

'you know, though, I really do like this.'

'what?'

'when you've got feelings. it's cute.'

'I'm not cute.'

'are too. want to know what else?' Rhys asks.

'what?' Faris replies, and laughs a little, at the amount of sappy this conversation has gotten, an amount that's enough to make him hate himself for it, but on the other hand, that's outweighed by how much he loves this, to have Rhys in his lap and just feel comfortable with him.

the only reply he gets is a handful of snow right in the face.

–

Rhys spends New Year's Eve at Faris' house, like he'd said he would. he gets there two days before, having taken a taxi from the station, bundled up in what must be his warmest clothes, and Faris' first reaction after the obligatory kiss is to apologise for how cold the house is, cold enough that their breaths come out in puffy clouds that mingle, but Rhys only smiles and kisses him again.

'we'll just have to huddle for warmth then, right?'

they spend the entire four days that Rhys is staying bundled up in woollen sweaters and scarves and warm socks, under the duvet in Faris' bed and wrapped up in each other's body heat. when they have sex, they mostly stick to hands and mouths and undoing their trousers just enough to allow access, buried so deeply in old blankets and duvets that they end up covered in sweat. Rhys makes instant tomato soup and tea for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and Faris finds this electrical space heater in the closet that his mum had insisted on him taking when he moved out, so he moves it from room to room, but even then, it doesn't work all that well. so they just bundle up even thicker, Faris wraps himself in a fuzzy old blanket all the time and pretends to be offended when Rhys makes fun of him for it, and Rhys pulls on the largest knitted sweater he can find in Faris' closet over two of his own and doesn't take it off again for longer than twenty minutes at a time until he leaves.

the last night of the year, Faris works Rhys' tight jeans and briefs off his legs underneath the duvet and pulls the layers of sweaters halfway up his chest so he can work two fingers slick with both sweat and lube into him and then replace them with his cock, setting up a slow, steady rhythm, and he swears the heat that's trapped under the heap of duvets is far greater than the heat inside of Rhys. it's unbearable, really, the feeling of sweat gathering on his skin under the sweater that he's still wearing, heat more intense than anything he's ever felt, but still, it's the kind of unbearable that he wants to drag out for as long as possible. the whole time, he whispers into Rhys' skin, the feverish sweaty curve of his neck, how much he loves him, how beautiful he looks, not really fully formulated thoughts but what comes out when the heat is addling his brain. after Faris has what might have been the most painful orgasm of his life, the heat so overwhelming that his arms and knees actually buckle, they pull their clothes back into position and curl around each other under the mess of sweaty duvets, too lazy to be bothered by the wet spot or their sticky skin. they stay like that for a long time, just breathing each other in and whispering whatever comes to mind.

they go outside a few minutes before midnight, the sudden snowy cold from outside stinging at their skin and running down their backs, almost as a relief. Faris had never liked the tradition of lighting fireworks, always found them to be obnoxious with both their bright colours and the hiss and boom of the explosion, but Rhys had insisted on going out to watch them until he decided to give in. they stand in the snow at the back of the house, where there's a better view of the city and the first firecrackers that shoot up, and Faris wraps himself around Rhys' shivering figure, feels him shake in the cold underneath his fingers. he watches the bright lights explode in the distance, and in a way, he can understand why people like them so much, feels like maybe, that's what the pit of his stomach feels like when he's around Rhys, crackling and hissing and exploding into green and red and yellow. he isn't sure whether it's a pleasant feeling or not.


	3. in a jar

their first fight is when Rhys comes to visit Faris in spring, close to the date of their one year anniversary. Faris does not believe in anniversaries, in any sort of time measurements when it comes to relationships, really, but Rhys does, and also, this is when he's got time off uni for half terms, so Faris had invited him to spend the week.

this is after he's had a sudden burst of inspiration for a piece, fuelled by one particular late night call with Rhys in which he'd said, 'you know, you know pretty much everything about me, but I know nothing about you. you should tell me more. something you wouldn't tell other people.'

that was the night when Faris mumbled out something about compulsions, about that need to draw that gets into his hands and does most of the work for him, how all of him runs on compulsions, the ones that make him want to keep Rhys close and safe and the ones that run into his brain sometimes and suggest things that scare the sober part of him. he didn't go into what those things entailed these days, that sick desire to just take Rhys over and use him, but instead told the stories of nightmares he'd had as a teenager, the ones that still occasionally sneak up on him, where he's violently fucking members of his own family and people he cares about, getting his hands dirty with their blood, and the ones where he takes a knife to disfigure his own face, his body, where he breaks all the joints in his fingers with a hammer or pulls out his own teeth. all those parts of his subconscious that he doesn't want to know where they come from or what they mean, he pulled them out like cancerous black bile from the very back of his throat and told Rhys about them, listened to his breath hitch on the far end of the line, but it sounded like he was choking on something, almost. when Faris was done, feeling empty and exhausted and gross the same way he would after vomiting, it stayed silent for a pretty long while.

'Rhys?'

'yeah.' his voice was soft, careful, and Faris loathed it the same way he hates being pitied. 'you know?'

'what?'

'it's all right if you feel like this. if you've got those nightmares and those thoughts. I don't care.'

the day after, Faris drove down to the record shop and spent the entire day sipping black coffee that doesn't really taste like anything while Tom played him albums that he insisted Faris absolutely needs to hear. they talked about nothing in particular, about Tom's life and the girl that he's been seeing the past few months, but who isn't anything serious, and about Rhys for a few brief moments. Faris didn't bring up the conversation he'd had the night before, didn't feel the need to and still doesn't, because he and Tom don't talk about these kinds of things, it's a sort of unspoken agreement they'd made early on in their friendship. he felt like it was comforting though, to hear Tom talk over the soft sounds of shoegaze, made the white-noise flicker of emptiness and nervousness in the pit of his stomach where he'd pulled out all those words over the phone last night subside just a little.

that night, when he got home, Faris sat down in the study and began working, pulled more of the thoughts he didn't want to have out from the back of his mind like dark, sticky goo, and he began to work and didn't stop, not when his hand cramped up or the sun crept into the blinds, he simply made coffee and swallowed a paracetamol before he went back to drawing. it was three days of straight working until he sunk down into bed for a few hours of sleep, and then as soon as he woke up returned to work again for another three days. Rhys called a number of times during that time, but even then, Faris didn't so much listen to him as he just let him talk, let the sound of his voice fade out into a soft lull, like the crackling of the same white noise of an empty TV channel that he still had coursing deep in his guts. he keeps his half of the conversation to assuring 'hm', to 'huh' and 'yeah', and a short 'love you' at the end whenever Rhys is close to hanging up, and he lets his fingers work like there's something other than the sheer force of compulsions driving them. by the time Rhys' taxi arrives, he's spent the previous night applying finishing touches, blots of ink like Rorschach and soft smeared lines, only falling into bed when the early morning sun began cracking the horizon between the sky and the hills.

he's up for less than an hour when Rhys rings the doorbell, barely just out of the shower and with the rest of the house an awful mess, flies buzzing in the kitchen with no proper food in it and both the bedroom and living room in a state of disarray of which he isn't sure when exactly it started. he's still got black smeared all over his hands when he opens the door, but Rhys doesn't appear to notice. his first reaction is to dig his fingers into the back of Faris' neck and pull him down close enough to kiss him, bag still slung over his shoulder.

'hey.'

'hey. missed you.'

Faris reaches up to pry Rhys' hands off his shoulders to lead him inside and shut the door. 'you got here safely, then?'

'mm, yeah,' Rhys starts, and he's already got his hands on Faris' waist and their mouths loosely sliding over each other again. he's contact-starved and eager, the way he always gets when it's been a while, and Faris isn't exactly in the mood to protest. 'taxi driver was a bit of a twat, though, took him two tries to find the way here, but you know.'

Faris laughs. he takes Rhys' jaw into one of his hands to kiss him properly, deeply, and lets the other hand rest on the small of his back, fingers slipping ever so slightly up the hem of his t-shirt. he already knows that it'll be maybe half an hour, maybe less than that, before they end up in bed, because that's how it always goes.

'you got your fingers all black,' Rhys observes when he pulls back, and then places a small bite right above the knob of Faris' collarbone.

'been working until morning,' Faris replies. he winces a bit when the pain of Rhys' teeth sinking in really hits, and then lets that hand wander up his side to stroke at his ribcage through the thin fabric. 'whole house is in a bit of a state, but you know, I've been busy.'

Rhys snorts, a little bit, and it should be unappealing, and then says, 'hard-working artist, you.' he kisses the bite mark he'd just left and adds, 'so where do you suggest we go that's least filthy, then?'

'I don't know, living room or the bedroom, I suppose?'

'how about your bedroom,' Rhys says, and makes it sound not like a question at all.

so they do, they splay out in the crumpled sheets that have been on the bed for god knows how long, and almost immediately, Rhys is pressed against Faris' side, long thin fingers already wandering under his shirt and pressing into his sides.

'sorry about the mess. again.'

'don't mind.' Rhys squirms a little when Faris drops a quick kiss and a lick to the side of his neck, and then another above it, working his way up to his jaw and then to his mouth, but even through his rapidly speeding up breaths, he continues, 'so, that piece you've been so busy with, tell me about that.'

'finished it last night, actually.' Faris presses his black fingers into the soft strip of Rhys' hips that peeks out where his shirt has ridden up and pulls him more on top of himself, and continues, 'it's my best yet, I think.'

'figured as much. judged by how busy you've been, it's got to be something really good.'

'I'm not sure if I should be flattered,' Faris says, pushing his lips into Rhys' and eating at his mouth, and that in turn makes Rhys produce little mewling sounds from the back of his throat and roll his hips. it makes Faris laugh, a little, how even after all those months, it's still so easy to get him riled up, but then, it's also more than satisfying.

'hey, what's so funny?'

'you sound like an angry cat.' Faris closes his mouth over the pulse point at Rhys' throat, where his heartbeat is fluttering fast already, and sucks at the skin until he gets another, louder mewling noise.

that noise in turn is followed by something that vaguely resembles a laugh, but distorted by short breaths and general arousal, and Rhys replies, 'you love it, come on.'

it's true, in a sense, Faris really does love it, still loves seeing what he and only he can do to Rhys. he slides one hand under the fabric of Rhys' shirt, feels the heat and the heartbeat rabbiting beneath his ribcage, and presses another kiss to his lips.

'tell me more about that piece you did. what's it about?'

Faris lets his thumb rub at the edge of Rhys' lowest rib, feels the skin go prickly with a layer of goosebumps almost immediately, and shuffles a bit downward on the bed so he can be closer to Rhys' face, say the words right into his mouth and kiss it between them when he feels like it. 'not you this time.'

they'd discussed this before, on a hazy summer evening while Faris let his hand draw out lazy air bubble circles across a notebook page, how Faris won't show anyone he's currently seeing any sort of art that relates to them, not even in private, because he finds it to be completely tasteless.

'so that means I'll get to see it soon?'

'probably, yeah.' Faris lets Rhys pull him closer by the nape of his neck, lets him lick into his mouth with little kittenish strokes of his tongue.

'mm, what's this great piece of art about then if it's not me?'

Faris waits for a second before he replies, lets Rhys kiss him again and then leans up to kiss him in return, and only when he's satisfied with how blood rush-hot his lips are, how fast his heart is pumping does he actually say, 'compulsions.'

'you're going to have to elaborate on that.'

'the good ones and the bad ones. mostly the bad ones.'

'you mean the things you dream about.'

'basically.' honestly, even if Faris has already told Rhys about all these things, about his desires to hurt and slaughter and mutilate, he still doesn't exactly want to bring them up again. he presses both his hands into the dip of Rhys' waist and brings their hips together, lets his thumbs stroke soft circles into the heated flesh. 'don't really like talking about these kind of things.'

Rhys nods and kisses him once again, lazy and gentle, different from their earlier kisses, but long. 'what's a good compulsion, then?'

'love.' Faris pushes his thigh between Rhys' two and connects their lips again, bites on his bottom lip ever so gently. 'kissing you, that's a good compulsion, too. most feelings.' he licks Rhys' mouth open and says into it, 'all chemical reactions that you can't control or stop, it's all just compulsive.'

Rhys laughs, bubbling up through his chest so hard Faris can feel it, and shifts so he's beside him again. 'you're a weirdo,' he says, pressing a kiss to the very corner of Faris' mouth.

'yeah,' Faris replies, 'yeah, I am.'

they keep kissing for a while, like that, hands splayed out softly against each other's body parts and one of Rhys' legs thrown over Faris' hips. it's easy, not the anticipation-loaded kissing of which they both know it will lead to sex, and it makes Faris feel hazy in his lungs, hazy or unreal, like they're in a dream. Faris really doesn't mind at all.

eventually, after what seems like hours and is probably just a few minutes, they're beginning to drift back into normalcy, when Rhys is thumbing at the waistline of Faris' trousers, slowly sliding the tips of his fingers underneath it to rub at the soft skin.

'so,' Faris starts when he's got one hand low on Rhys' hip, long fingers wrapped around it to stroke at the flesh of his arse. 'what've you been doing all on your own then?'

'not much, you know.' Rhys writhes in Faris' arms, just the slightest bit, to readjust himself into a more comfortable position, and says, 'finals, you know, lots of listening to new music, mainly. went out on the town a couple times, the usual.'

there is a cracking sensation. it's the way glass begins to split in a thin jagged line before it shatters, and that's how it feels in Faris' chest, a hair-thin little crack that doesn't look like it could possibly do any great amounts of damage. 'what?'

'yeah. they've got this club not too far away from campus, they play pretty good music. lots of 60s, we go there every week or two, me and some people from class.'

boom goes the shatter and then it feels like heavy shards of glass inside of Faris' chest, blunt and shiny and cutting his guts open softly like butter, like it doesn't even really hurt. he thinks of the compulsion of swallowing razorblades and pulls his hands from Rhys' body, ever so slowly. 'why didn't you tell me about this before?'

the thing is, possibly the worst quality Faris has is the fact that he is possessive. it's the thing that's made most of his exes leave, his need to keep them close and consider them his, being a control freak, the last girl he'd had before Rhys had called it. this is the same girl that he'd spent months on end sending letters to, asking her to come back, apologising for whatever she'd accused him of, telling her that he still loved her, until he found Rhys and got bored with it, that is. he can't help it, though, the idea of Rhys alone and inebriated in a room filled with strangers and booming music stings in his chest with the possibility that he could get hurt, by someone who isn't Faris himself, that is, or that he could in fact want it, that he'd go home with someone else and deliberately hurt Faris.

'didn't think you'd find it important,' Rhys states, and the softness that was there in his voice before is gone now. 'just a bunch of poofish blokes getting drunk and listening to music, I didn't think you would care.'

'listen.' there's a strain there in Faris' voice, a violent one that he didn't plan on putting in there, and he plants his hand on Rhys' shoulder. 'I don't want you to go out without me again.'

a pause. Rhys sits up, away from Faris, and the space between their bodies basically crackles. 'excuse me?'

'just don't, please.'

'well.' that's all that Rhys says, well, but it feels like he actually means to say that much more.

'look, it's for your own best. I don't want you to get hurt, that's all.'

'are you trying to say that I can't take care of myself?'

'I'm not, I'm just saying that you might do something. someone. you're going to regret.'

'you're saying I'm not trustworthy, then,' Rhys says, exasperated, and Faris half has the desire to slap him across the face.

'no, that's not what I mean, it's just...' Faris starts, but before he can continue, before he can even make his mind up fully what he was about to say, Rhys cuts him off.

'you're completely unreasonable, fuck.'

'Rhys.'

'look, I need some fresh air. just.' Rhys stands up and adjusts his clothes and pulls his cigarettes from one pocket of his trousers.

'you're not going away,' Faris says, and he tries to put concern in it, surprise, but it just comes out sounding like the worst way it could have possibly been intended.

'I'm not.' Rhys pushes one cigarette between his lips and leaves, his socked feet barely resonating on the hallway floor, and after Faris hears a door slam shut somewhere, he gets up and walks into the kitchen.

between the buzzing of flies around the bowl of fruit, he digs into the cabinet, gets out garbage bags and the one emergency packet of fags he's kept in there for the past year or so. he puts the cigarettes into his shirt pocket and the rotten fruit into one garbage bag, then empties out the pot of fuck-knows-how-old noodles on the stove and the stale dark tea that's standing in a cup on the table. he opens the fridge and the cabinets again and throws away everything that's past its expiration date.

Faris likes order. he's got this unfortunate tendency to let the house get absolutely filthy whenever he's preoccupied with other things, but after he's finished a piece and returned to his normal routine, everything has to be perfectly clean. the books on his shelf are ordered by author, the records in his collection by year. according to the critics, it shows in his art too, in the meticulously straight lines and mass amounts of circles and squares, and he guesses that's why some people are convinced that he suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder. everything in its own place, he keeps all the food in his kitchen neatly stacked and all his filled sketchbooks lined up from one end of his desk to the other, sorted from oldest to newest. he likes to make sure that all his possessions are where they belong, and that includes his boyfriend, all the things that he rightfully owns.

when the kitchen is clean, Faris lets himself sink down against the side of the now empty fridge, pressed so tightly against it that he can feel the humming in his spine, and smokes half the packet of cigarettes in one go. he lets the ash drip down onto the floor and waits for the rush of nicotine to clear his mind and make the shattered feeling in his chest subside, and feels the buzz against his back lull him into a comfortable sort-of trance.

it's an hour or more before he finally gets up and goes outside. he finds Rhys sitting on one of the lawn chairs at the back of the house, a bunch of cigarette butts sunk into the grass beside him, and takes a seat on the other one.

'hey.'

'hey.'

'so you've come here to apologise, then?'

'I don't think there's anything I need to apologise for.'

'well, on account of the fact that you basically said you don't trust me and that you take me for the type of person who gets drunk and sleeps around.' Rhys puffs the fag he's holding between two fingers and looks down onto the grass.

'that's not what I meant at all.'

'you made it sound like that.'

'no, look.' Faris has never been good at emoting. 'what I'm trying to say, I guess, I care about you a lot. I like you more than I've ever liked anyone.'

'you don't do a very good job of that, though.'

'I know.' there's only two feet or so of space between them and Faris half wants to close them, wants to reach out and cover Rhys' hand with his own, just to ensure that he's still there, that he won't just stand up and walk away as if he could. 'I just don't want you to get hurt, you know. want to keep you safe.'

Rhys says something under his breath, and Faris doesn't quite catch it. there's moisture in his reddened eyes, the skin below them already crusty with dried tears, and that just makes him want to wrap Rhys up in his arms and prove to him he cares that much more.

'what?'

'never mind.' one of Rhys' hands twitches, and Faris takes that as a cue of some sort, to go ahead and hold it. 'can you just, not. don't do that.'

'sorry,' Faris says, and he pulls his hand away.

a pause.

'are you mad at me?'

'I think I've got every right to.'

'I told you, I didn't mean it like that. I just want the best for you.'

'you're a cunt.'

'I am.' Faris doesn't even think to disagree with it. it's true, he really is, a jealous, emotionless cunt, but then on the other side there's Rhys who brings out the best in him, who he just wants to save, or rather, prevent from ever being in need of getting saved. suddenly, he looks way too small in that lawn chair, like he might get picked up and swept away by the wind. 'do you mind if I come closer?'

'what?'

'if I can sit next to you.'

'that's all?'

'that's all.'

'I guess you can.'

space is limited for the two of them on the narrow chair, but they manage, even when their hips bump and Faris has to bring up one hand to wrap loosely around Rhys' side, just barely touching his arm.

'do you want to talk about this? discuss it out?'

'I don't really,' Rhys starts, and then, 'don't like talking about this kind of things.' he lights another fag, and that makes Faris crave one of his own yet again. asking Rhys for a drag of his would be inappropriate, he supposes, and so he lights one more of his emergency cigarettes. 'thought you didn't smoke.'

'only do it when I'm in a bad mood, mostly.'

Rhys laughs, but it seems forced, almost painful. 'I guess I overreacted a bit, earlier on,' he says, and it doesn't sound genuine. 'probably should apologise for that.'

'don't apologise.' Faris coughs, twice, and looks down at the fag in his hand with disdain. 'not going to apologise, either. just for looking out for you.'

'please,' Rhys says, 'can we just stop talking about this.'

they stay there sitting like that for a long time, leaning into each other and smoking cigarettes and not saying anything, until the sky begins to go dusky and Rhys suggests that they get dinner, as if nothing had happened. it still feels fake, though, pushing at the cracks inside Faris' chest, but Rhys had asked him to stop talking about it, so instead they order take out and eat in silence and he tries to not think about how much it aches.

–

the sex they have that night is some of the best they've had yet. Faris takes his time, ever so slowly inching into Rhys' side of the bed and then kissing him like this is the first time, careful, to make sure Rhys is okay with it. they peel off each other's clothes slowly, one by one, and Faris kisses every square inch of exposed white flesh as if he hasn't ran his fingers over it a million times before, relishing it, breathing in the smell of Rhys' skin. he opens Rhys up with his tongue and then his fingers, prepares him more thoroughly than he perhaps needs to, until Rhys is right on the edge of orgasm and that's exactly where Faris wants him. he takes it slow when he actually fucks Rhys as well, first on his back with his legs draped over Faris' shoulders, then face down, arms wound tightly around Rhys' middle with one hand stroking at his cock. Faris feels Rhys breathe beneath him, feels the way the muscles in his back ripple with each thrust and how his insides contract in a painfully slow deliberate squeeze every few seconds, his heartbeat and the protruding bones of his spine and shoulder blades.

he drops open-mouthed kisses to Rhys' back and the sides of his neck, whispers, 'love you,' and part of him thinks, 'mine,' over and over again. Faris lets some of the 'mine's fall out from his mouth, drops them onto the skin and almost is surprised that they don't leave a mark. he feels like they should, though, a way to mark Rhys as truly his, to claim him, and so digs his fingers into the part of Rhys' hips where they dip into his legs instead, until he hears soft complaints of, 'Faris, that really hurts,' and stops, because hurting Rhys is the last thing he wants to do.

–

for most of the week that Rhys is staying, they don't go out. Faris spends hours sitting on the cracked vinyl of the couch next to Rhys, absent-mindedly letting his hands work across a page of his notebook while Rhys is curled against his side or lying in his lap or sitting half on top of him, shaking with laughter at some inane sitcom rerun flickering over the small television screen. he's wrapped up in one of Faris' old jumpers more often than not, one of the ones that are already big on Faris himself, that hang down his skinny shoulders and reach to his thighs and have sleeves so baggy they completely hide his fingers, or in the t-shirt Faris had worn earlier that day or the day before. Faris doesn't mind, even if Rhys doesn't bother with asking him, because it leaves the smell of Rhys' skin in his clothes, and in turn when he pulls his own t-shirt over Rhys' head he can smell the faint echo of the cologne he wears, his distinct smell that he doesn't notice on his own body but that seems all too apparent on Rhys, and that's another affirmation that Rhys is his, that they are each other's. he keeps himself wrapped around Rhys most of the time, too, always an arm around his shoulders or his waist, and late at night, he drapes both his arms and usually one of his legs as well across Rhys' naked body, clinging to him like he might disappear. more than once, he wakes up in the middle of the night or the dead of the early morning to Rhys flailing in his sleep because of what he hopes is just nightmares, or to a soft only half awake voice, 'Faris, you're crushing me.'

when he takes Rhys out to town that week, to eat dinner or to the record shop while Tom is working, he no longer cares if anyone sees them hold hands or kiss, lets them draw their own conclusions. this probably goes along with his obsession with order, Faris thinks, to hold up a good reputation, make people who can put a name to his face believe that maybe the rumours are just rumours, but then, he cares more about Rhys than he does about looking somewhat normal. he takes Rhys to a somewhat run-down pub one night, a little place that seems to play nothing but the same five Bob Dylan songs over and over again on its stereo and where every single surface is marred with names and dates in knife scratches and permanent markers. they drink whiskey and coke and Rhys reads aloud from the dark of the counter, 'if you lock something away to protect it, put a lock on the inside.'

Faris takes a slow sip of his drink and runs his finger through a jagged scar in the wood which reads, 'CALVIN WUZ ERE,' and then he says, 'that's actually pretty clever.'

they don't ever get around to picking up the conversation from that first day again, and Faris is glad, because really, he still can't see where the problem is. the entire week, during lazy mornings or late nights, they both let their thoughts wander, talk about life and art and music and stories, but every time Rhys starts to even get close to the topic, Faris steers the conversation into a different direction, or leans over to kiss him until talking is no longer a priority for him.

Faris might be a little bit afraid of confrontation.

–

that summer, Rhys arrives on the first weekend after his classes end with an overstuffed suitcase and says that he didn't book the train back down to London until another three weeks. this is the kind of summer that happens maybe once every decade or so, the bursting drought that makes going outside for longer than ten minutes at a time absolutely unbearable. the headlines in the papers and the newscasters on TV are calling it the worst heatwave in twenty years, talk about a number of hospitalised people with heatstroke and show pictures of yellow-dehydrated grass, and so, for the first couple of days, they stay in. Faris pulls the blinds shut all around the house and they drink iced water and cold tea and spend most of the day sitting on the sofa in their briefs until the vinyl starts to stick to their backs.

Rhys spreads out on the carpet one day, night, morning, it's a bit hard to tell with Faris' sleep schedule and the lack of daylight, and lets Faris draw things on his skin while they talk. it's mostly air bubbles welling up like the bubbling of his voice, little manic circles that look more like scales on his skin, really, circular scales on his thighs and his arms, spilling over onto his shoulders and chest until he starts squirming and squealing and turns the beginning of what would have been a perfect circle into a jagged line pointing somewhere into the vague direction of his nipple.

'hey, hold still, hold still.'

'sorry, it's just, I'm a bit ticklish.'

'you want me to stop?'

'not stop, just...' Rhys trails off like he can't think of the words he needs, and instead pulls Faris closer by his shoulders to kiss him.

Faris moves his pen to Rhys' collarbone, draws a jagged wave shape from one end to the other and only slightly makes him twitch and writhe. 'Rhys, I can't make you into art if you keep moving.'

'sorry.'

he draws another wave slightly above the first, a different shape, and then another, rings them over Rhys' shoulders like a necklace and then begins to lead them across the pale skin of his throat. when he hears heavy breathing and feels Rhys' heart rate booming at his jugular, on the third or fourth wave, he pauses for a second.

'god,' Rhys presses out, 'god, come here,' and pulls Faris down yet again, sucks at his lip and guides one of Faris' hands down to his briefs where he's already half hard.

they fuck right there on the carpet, which ends up leaving Rhys with angry red burns on his back, and after, when they stumble into the cold shower together, he doesn't make any particular efforts to get the black ink off his skin, and so, the next week or so it stays there, only fading slowly. Faris takes him out into town the next day, slipping in and out of shops, not really looking to buy anything, but to cool down under their air conditioning, and he swears he can see Rhys trying to not squirm under the gazes people direct at the black lines on his arms and leading up his neck. they end up sitting side by side in this little café and drinking iced lattes, which are overpriced and sugary and Faris doesn't think he's ever drank anything as disgusting in his life, but they're sufficiently cold, at the very least. Rhys holds his glass with dainty fingers, close to his chest where his shirt is already somewhat sticky with sweat, and watches the people walking along the street, and Faris pulls at his other arm and rolls the sleeve back to expose as much skin as he possibly can. the skin there is milky pale the colour of notebook paper, the same colour that Rhys is everywhere else, and it makes a harsh contrast against the golden tan of Faris' fingers and even more so against the black ink.

'what're you doing?' Rhys asks, still somewhat engaged in following this kid with his eyes.

'don't know.' Faris begins the outlines of a fish, a fish's head with a floppy big black mouth. 'what're you looking at?'

'not much. people.' his eyes flicker away to a family of four pausing at the other side of the street and he sips his drink. 'swear that guy who just walked past was wearing the same shirt as me.'

'you're such a girl,' Faris says, not looking up from where he's giving the fish googly eyes, and he laughs.

Rhys pretends to swat at his hand. 'oi.'

''m being honest, that's all.' he adds scales to the fish, meticulous little circles like the ones that lead up Rhys' other arm, and adds, 'but you wear it much better, if that's any comfort.'

Rhys laughs, all soft and bubbly and Faris has to tighten the grip on his arm to steady it that slight bit, and then he leans over to kiss Faris on the cheek, just for a short second.

a little, Faris has the desire to hate himself for being a huge sap again, for living inside that shallow cliché of young love, but then, on the other hand, like this, it's easy, it's comfortable, and Rhys is happy and relaxed and all his.

'what's that you just drew there?'

'it's a mermaid.'

'I think the fish half is supposed to be bottom half, not the top half?'

'a reverse mermaid. not as sexy, but more practical.'

Rhys sips his drink again, and Faris can tell he's trying not to laugh, and so, he goes back to drawing up his arm, draws more fishes and another mermaid, a regular one this time around, and envelops them in a huge wave, dozens of curved lines that all follow the same stream and run so close they begin to bleed together.

when a waitress passes by them, Rhys orders himself a second iced latte, and in the few seconds he's preoccupied with that, Faris scribbles onto the back of his arm where he wouldn't be able to see, 'property of Faris A. Badwan,' writes his name the way he signs a finished work, and he has to resist the urge to smile.

'what did you just draw on my arm?'

'nothing.' Faris rubs his thumb against Rhys' wrist, the very edge of the wave where the ink has already dried, and says, 'there, now you're a piece of art.'

–

they spend long hours outside after the worst of the heat has subsided, sitting in the orchard or the park when the air is already dusky, since that's about the time of day when leaving the house stops seeming like a completely suicidal idea. Rhys smokes cigarettes and Faris usually gets cravings after tasting the nicotine in his mouth and then asks if he can bum one, and they sip from a bottle of cheap fruity-sweet wine and talk nonsense. some nights, they lie in the grass until the sky is purpley black and flecked with stars and the back of Rhys' shirt is stained green, and when the night air is beginning to chill their skin, they curl together and Rhys points up into the sky and explains the constellations to Faris, even when his voice is already slurring drunk and his hands unsteady.

one night, he's draped halfway over Faris, breathing the smell of wine into his face and holding his trembling pointer finger into the sky, saying, 'this one there, that's Mira, I think, in Cetus, really bright tonight, and that there,' with no real direction of where his hands are pointing. then Faris shuts him up with a kiss and pushes him down into the grass, and then gets them both off simply by rutting against him like they're two horny teenagers.

they lie back when they're done, heads lolling onto each other's shoulders, and Faris can feel the sticky mess in his pants, soreness on his cock caused by the friction, and next to him, Rhys says, 'irk. I need a shower,' but still, he feels like this is perfect for the moment, even after over a year, and that just makes something in the pit of his gut stir, makes him wonder when it's going to stop and crash with a boom and shatter.

'you're not going to leave me, right?'

'what, right here to steal your car and drive back home without you?' Rhys giggles, his voice hazy both with tipsiness and post-sex.

'no, I meant more in general.'

'no? why would I want to leave you?'

'good,' Faris leans over to watch Rhys' face, flushed bright red, 'that's good.' he dips his head to drop messy kisses onto Rhys' cheeks, then his mouth, and says, 'don't leave me.'

'you're not usually like this. worried.'

'I'm not usually drunk,' Faris points out and presses their lips together once again, just for a short second, feels Rhys squirm a bit and the way his chest shakes with badly repressed laughter.

'fair enough.' Rhys pushes at his shoulders and says, 'come on, take me home. need that shower.'

so Faris does, although he has to tuck Rhys under his arm and basically drag him back to where he parked the car because Rhys is kind of useless after sex. they take that shower and then fuck again, still somewhat drunkenly sloppy, and Rhys falls asleep right when they're finished. Faris feels like this is bone-achingly perfect, and that part of him that's a romantic is thinking that maybe, this relationship won't end like all the rest, that they were all just trial and error, but then, the rest of him still feels the nervousness pooling heavy in his guts. he stays up for a long time that night, watching Rhys in his sleep, calm and peaceful like a statue the way he always gets after he's been fucked, feels all those insecurities that he'd banished from his brain back when he was still a teenager creep in once again, and so he listens to Rhys' heartbeat like a metronome in the hope that it would make him fall asleep quicker.

–

some days after that, after they've spent more time doing nothing and drinking, listening to records that Tom had recommended to Faris ages ago, they get up early and take the train north for three long hours. they spend some time walking along the little side streets, slipping in and out of shops and eating in a small dark restaurant that vaguely seems like a cave. in a new age shop right down from a cathedral, while Rhys looks through a book on tea leaves he found sitting on the very back of the shelf, Faris buys himself a new ring, dark stone polished so smoothly it looks like metal. he squeezes it onto his pointer finger when they exit from the incense-heavy air of the shop into the bright daylight and the vague smell of the river not too far away, the only finger on his hands that's still got any room left on it. this is right around noon, when the sun is achingly bright and Faris curses himself for not doing the sensible thing and buying a pair of sunglasses like Rhys had done in this shop what seems like days ago, but they walk to the river either way. somewhere below the bridge, the river is sparkling like hundreds of mirrors, blinding shades of moving white and dark, and Rhys heaves himself up to sit on the banister.

Faris reaches for his arm almost instinctively, 'careful, hey, hey.'

'I'm not going to fall,' Rhys says and laughs, and that just makes Faris want to move in closer and pull him back down.

'you might just,' he starts, and then moves between Rhys' legs to grab hold of both his hands and keep him there, because it's not like anyone in this town is going to recognise him anyway.

'what're you doing?' Rhys asks, his face half obscured by his shades, which reflect the bright spotlight of the sun almost as much as the river behind him, and Faris blinks.

'I like the view. the water and such.'

Rhys laughs and it's all so bright it's aching, and it feels like being inside of an over-exposed photo. his hands grasp at Faris' fingers, intertwine with them and pull at one of his rings, and Faris doesn't look down. he pulls it all the way off and slips it onto his own finger, Faris can feel it when Rhys covers the back of his hand with his own, pushing hard onto the bone.

his first thought is, 'oh,' so it's what he says.

'oh can mean a lot of things,' Rhys replies, and Faris laughs.

he feels at Rhys' forefinger where the hard metal is, and says, 'I'm not sure.' the ring Rhys took is one Faris bought at a charity shop years and years ago, the metal worn dark with a chipped dark stone in the centre. it's always been a little big even on Faris' finger, and now on Rhys' dainty hand it's way too large and loose, the weight of the stone making it hang awkwardly lopsided.

'hey.'

'hey,' Rhys says back and moves one hand upward to take his sunglasses off, and in that moment, Faris feels like he understands it, not only that, but he loves this, what they have, more than anything in the world.

so he says it out loud, 'hey. I get it now.' the very tip of his thumb bumps against the band of the ring, like it's trying to force itself into it next to Rhys' finger, and he adds, 'keep it, yeah?'

Rhys smiles and nods and kisses him, soft and quick, and Faris feels like his lungs are filling with water, he's drowning in that feeling in the most pleasant way possible. there's still that heavy open pit of nervousness in his stomach though, like a looming threat, and that just makes him wonder when the boom and shatter is going to come with some form of anticipation, almost.

Faris is a masochist sometimes.

–

when the crash does happen, it's sooner than Faris would have ever conceived it could happen, and it happens in a way which he would've never expected. this is only a few days before Rhys would take his train back down to London, when the summer has progressed to the part that's heavy rain and thunderstorms, the typical English idea of a summer. Rhys is terrified of thunderstorms, he turns into this little trembling ball whenever the sky outside goes dark and the first flashes of lightning come down in the far distance, and it's a kind of terror that won't subside until the weather calms, not even when Faris places soft kisses all over his face and whispers quiet words of comfort into his ear. still, though, ever since that first night last summer when it had stormed, Rhys has always demanded Faris to hold him through it, or at least until he falls asleep. Faris had, without complaining, even when his arm was threatening to go numb from being trapped by Rhys' weight or when he'd managed to curl himself against the headboard in such a way that Faris had barely any room on the bed, that need to protect Rhys far greater than his want to be comfortable. so when Faris wakes up in the dead of night to the sound of thunderclaps outside and an empty bed with the sheets on the other side still warm, he's bound to be a little bit worried.

he can hear Rhys' voice coming from the kitchen, though, not quite making out any words but making out gaps between sentences, like he's speaking to someone on the phone, and that's a bit unusual, too, he can't remember Rhys ever talking to anyone on the phone while he was staying here.

'what?' his voice comes from the kitchen, louder and clearer than before, and then again, 'what?!'

the reception here is crap, Faris reminds himself, and he figures it's probably that, the line cutting out, so he doesn't pay it any attention. Rhys will probably be back next to him soon, he figures, and besides, his limbs are heavy pressing him into the mattress the way they get after waking up from a particularly bad nightmare, only this time, it's the waking up to an empty bed that's keeping him trapped, and so, he waits and watches the storm through the window, sees a flash of lightning somewhere in the far distance and counts down the seconds to the rumble of thunder. seven. another flash, bigger, and this time it's only five seconds until the thunder rolls.

it's another thirteen seconds and another two lightning bolts until Rhys comes back, his shape silhouetted in the door frame where he'd forgotten to turn off the light, giving him a halo of sleep-messy hair. he pauses to pull on a woollen sweater he finds on the floor before he sits down on his side of the bed.

'Faris?'

'yes?' he doesn't miss the shake in Rhys' voice, the soft sadness that matches the look he gets into his eyes sometimes.

'you're awake?'

'obviously. everything all right?'

Faris immediately feels a bit stupid for asking, because it's more than obvious that Rhys is anything but all right. he's got that little shake in his shoulders, the same one he gets when it's storming outside, goosebumps on his legs and sweat on his neck, his pupils blown wider than the dim light normally would. involuntary reactions, and Faris thinks of sex, for a split second, and finds that a bit strange, that two things so different would cause a body to react the same way.

'did you have a bad dream?'

'no,' Rhys starts, 'I,' and then he cuts off, and now Faris can tell that he's crying, tears glistening on his cheeks in jagged tracks and soft sobs rocking through his upper body.

he doesn't think he's ever seen Rhys actually crying before, and seeing it now hurts, in the back of his throat and in his ribcage. it makes Faris want to coax what's put him into this state out of Rhys, so he can fix it and make sure it will never happen again, and so he moves closer and wraps his arms around him, just loosely. he can feel the trembling slow down, then come to a halt, and then Rhys is hanging in his grip, seemingly both tense and boneless. the tears keep spilling from his eyes, though, and Faris reaches up and makes an attempt to wipe them away with his thumb, like that would possible make it any better.

there aren't many things that Faris hates as much as he hates crying people. himself, he's taken to treating it like a bad habit, Faris quit crying the way other people quit smoking, hasn't cried since he was seventeen. that's probably one of the things that fuel the 'mentally unwell' rumours, the general lack of emotion that Faris shows, but it's always disgusted him, even as a kid, all the things that go along with it, the crusty salt that collects in the skin of his cheeks and the bags under his eyes, the sticky snot, and later on, the absolute loss of any sort of dignity it's sure to cause, as well as the general overblown melodrama of it.

right now, though, this is Rhys who's crying, his Rhys, weeping like a small child, and all that Faris wants is to figure out what did this to him and then make him feel better, make him feel safe for the rest of his life, so he tightens his grip and pushes his face against Rhys' bony shoulder.

'do you want to tell me about it?'

for a few seconds, there's no reply from Rhys other than choked off little sobs. he brings his sleeve up to wipe snot and tears from his face, and Faris wants to cringe, because it's disgusting, and also, that's probably his sweater Rhys is wearing. 'I've just got a call.'

'yeah,' Faris says, doesn't really know what else to say, and so he just holds Rhys even tighter, so tight he feels like his skinny waist might snap right in his arms, but it's comforting to him, in a sense, makes him feel that maybe, it's not that bad if they just stay close together, and he hopes it's comforting to Rhys as well. 'did anything happen?'

'Faris,' Rhys starts, and his voice is unsteady, shaking more so than his body, 'there's been an accident,' and the way he says the word _accident_ is painful, it pushes at the same parts of Faris' chest that had been cracked months earlier, so he tightens his grip some more.

'you're hurting me,' Rhys says, watery with tears pushing from his eyes and snot bubbling out of his nose once again, and Faris doesn't want to ask the specifics, doesn't want to know what said 'accident' entails, and Rhys just keeps crying, gnawing at his lower lip until it's red and stained with sprinkles of blood. there's more words coming from his mouth, Faris thinks, but he's not completely positive.

'Rhys, hey,' he starts, and Rhys just continues blubbering slurred words under his sobs, 'hey, calm down, you're in a state, I can't hear a word you're saying.'

Rhys sniffs, loudly, and wipes his face on his sleeve once more.

'we should try to go back to sleep. just don't think about it for some more hours, and then you can tell me about it tomorrow, all right?'

Faris is terrible at expressing concern. it's a thing that kind of goes along with the whole emotionless façade, and the self-aware part of him has never felt it sting that much.

'I'm sorry, Faris,' Rhys starts again, just barely comprehensible.

'don't apologise.'

'I just.'

'shush. just try to sleep again, just for a while. calm down a little. yeah?'

Rhys turns his head to look at Faris, his face flecked with red and tears, and that look is in his eyes again, the sad one that isn't just a trace like usual. Faris doesn't think he's ever seen anything so miserable in his life. 'I just really need.' he reaches for the packet of fags on the bedside table and tries to light himself one with trembly fingers, but it doesn't really work. 'fuck.'

'fuck,' Faris repeats, 'fuck, Rhys, come here.' it's pointless, it's really is, considering there's no way Rhys can actually move the way he's trapped in Faris' grip, but really, Faris is still tired and he wants to find some way to stop this, keep Rhys from crying and direct his thoughts elsewhere. 'you're all shaky,' he adds, and takes the lighter from Rhys' hands.

'sorry.' still trembling, Rhys places the cigarette between his lips. Faris can hear his teeth chatter, just a bit, he thinks.

'you want me to light you up?'

Rhys nods, and so Faris keeps one hand steady at the fag and then lights it. he watches as Rhys takes a deep drag and then pulls his hand back to let him exhale, and he doesn't think he's ever felt so much like an overbearing mother in his life.

'that better?'

the only response that comes from Rhys is a sniff. he raises his head that little bit to take the filter into his mouth again and suck at it, and then puffs out a huge cloud of smoke.

Faris takes a drag from the cigarette himself, can't help it, not with the stench of it hanging around the room and the amount of uncertainty looming in his gut, but he feels Rhys still in his arms, feels the tension ease from his muscles, and that at least is good, he supposes.

'we should try to go to sleep,' he says, and holds the fag close to Rhys' mouth once more, letting him take one last long drag of it before he pushes the butt out on the wood of the headboard. 'maybe it'll be better tomorrow.'


	4. fragments

it's much worse the morning after. Faris knows this, after the initial crash comes this unfortunate muddle of desolation and depression, almost uniform in just how bleak it seems. the barely-breathing half-dead leftovers of his relationship with Rhys hang in the room heavy like dust or smoke, even when neither of them had actually brought it up, when Rhys probably isn't even aware of the fact that they're essentially over.

maybe Faris is a pessimist at times, but then, this is how it always goes.

he manages to coax the whole story out of Rhys when they're having breakfast in the middle of the day, consisting of cigarettes and last night's Chinese take out, combined with a massive mug of ginger tea with way too many sugars mixed into it for Rhys.

the call was from his neighbour, the woman who lived just across the street from him, saying that something terrible had happened. it was lightning, a bolt of it that struck the old pine tree in the family's garden, catching it on fire. the tree had collapsed into the house, setting flames to it as well, the old structure with its wooden beams. no survivors.

'my whole family's dead,' Rhys concludes his retelling of the story, the cherry of his cigarette smouldering so close to the filter it's threatening to scorch his fingers. 'can you imagine that, having your whole family fucking dead.'

Faris can't do anything but shake his head, because no, he can't.

Faris has never been good at emoting.

he leaves Rhys to sit on the couch with his fags and the sweater he'd been wearing since last night and walks across the hall to the study to find his notebook, but when he returns after a few minutes of searching and Rhys is literally in the exact same position as he was when he had walked out, he finds his hands to be limp and useless and his brain to be empty.

so he spends most of the day sitting on the sofa next to Rhys, watching him, except for a couple of times when he leaves the room for a few minutes to cook more tea or pay the delivery guy who brings them a pizza, which Rhys refuses to eat and which Faris doesn't particularly want to eat, either. watching Rhys turns out to be a rather boring activity, as all he does is stare blankly into the air and smoke, and occasionally go outside to answer a call from some relative expressing their condolences. then again, though, Faris feels like it would be wrong of him to try and distract Rhys in some way or other, impious, almost, and also, he feels like he deserves this type of boredom for trying so hard to protect Rhys and then watching him get hurt by something he couldn't possibly have prevented.

they only go to bed when Rhys is so tired that the cigarette he's been idly sucking on falls from his fingers and burns his leg, causing him to start crying again, and that's when it really seems to hit, that this has all really happened, that Rhys is broken, far more than before and more than Faris ever wants to imagine. it hurts, and Faris wants to kiss the sadness away from Rhys' face, kiss it better, but he feels like that would be inappropriate, so instead, he leads Rhys into the bedroom and tucks him into a thick pile of blankets like he would wrap something fragile. he settles in the mess of sheets next to him and tells his sleep-slack face, 'I'm sorry, Rhys, I'm so sorry,' but no matter how hard he tries, he doesn't fall asleep.

he gets up extra early the next day to drive into town and searches the shops for rose hip tea, under the delusion that it could possibly make things better, because that's a thing he remembers about Rhys. when he gets back, he makes tea and cooks up instant soup for breakfast. he brings it to Rhys' bedside, watches him drink and dip slices of toast into the steaming hot soup, and when he's finished with eating and his eyes are still all empty and sad it feels like a kick into the shattered part of Faris' chest, like someone stepping onto thin ice. really, it doesn't surprise him at all, of course Rhys wouldn't get better simply from a cup of tea and breakfast in bed, and that's exactly what aches so much, knowing that this is something that can't just be easily fixed.

they spend the rest of the day in bed, always with at least two layers of clothes between them. Rhys smokes his cigarettes, letting the ash drip down onto the bedspread and the thick cable-knit on his chest, and the smell makes Faris crave them as well, eventually, so he gets out of bed for a minute to find his emergency packet in the kitchen cabinet.

'it's really quiet,' Rhys comments at one point, when it must be late afternoon, Faris thinks.

'do you want me to say something?'

'I don't know. I'm just saying. it's uncomfortable.'

'say something yourself, then.'

'I don't know what.'

it returns to quiet for a couple of seconds, then, and Rhys says, 'you want to know what I just remembered?'

'what?'

'my mum,' he says, 'the last time I saw her I told her I loved her. I always do, when I leave. so you know, at least there's that.'

Faris nods. there's nothing he hates quite as much as he hates clichés, but Rhys is choking on his sobs again, crying softly against the pillow where he's turned his head, and it makes Faris wish he could cry.

he curls up behind Rhys, wraps one arm around him loosely and pries the cigarette from his cold skinny fingers, stubs it out on the bedside table. 'I'm sorry, Rhys, I'm so sorry,' he whispers, and it's weird, a little, how everything he seems to be able to do is apologise for something that wasn't even his fault. he presses a short kiss to Rhys' cheek where it's already wet and sticky, and it's different from every other kiss he's ever had with him.

'I love you so much,' Rhys says, through the sobs that keep hiccuping out of him. 'so, so much.'

'I know,' Faris replies, 'love you too. and I'm so sorry.'

he pulls himself further around Rhys, like there's anything he could still be protected from, like the worst imaginable thing hasn't already happened to him. there's a sadness spreading out inside of Faris' chest, the type of sadness that feels like an actual outside influence, a dark, heavy cloud that hangs in the room and soaks through his clothes and into his skin.

–

the day of the funeral, some days after that, Rhys drags himself into the bathroom to take off that sweater for the first time since he put it on the night of that phone call and step into the shower. Faris awkwardly hovers around him, taking a seat on the toilet lid and watching him undress, and it's different, now, there's no desire to touch that pale flesh anywhere. Rhys is skinny and awkward, the gap between his legs too big and his ribcage and hipbones too prominent. his skin looks like thin, cheap fabric stretched over the bone where his shoulder blades and clavicles stick out, so colourless it appears grey, and Faris can't help but feel like he looks ill.

'you've dropped some weight, have you?'

Rhys says, 'guess I have,' and tests the spray of the shower with one hand before he steps inside. that sad undertone is gone from his voice, from his face, Faris doesn't think he's seen him show any emotion at all in the past few days.

if there's one thing he hates even more than overblown displays of emotions, it's the complete absence of them, the same aloof empty shell attitude as his. seeing Rhys like that, it makes him understand why he makes some people uncomfortable. Rhys has spent the past few days doing nothing but smoke and stare into empty space, and it unnerves Faris to no end, makes him half want to slap Rhys across the face and yell at him to do something, emote, go back to something resembling normal. if things were closer to normal, Faris thinks, he might have a possibility of fixing them, or at least know how to try.

from inside the shower comes a choked off sound, and behind the steamed up sliding glass door, Faris thinks he can see Rhys' outline shake. 'you're not crying in there, are you?'

'I'm not,' Rhys insists, half muted by the sound of the water, but it doesn't sound particularly convincing.

Faris has already showered and gotten dressed, so he's not particularly in the mood to come in and check on Rhys himself. 'you all right in there?'

'I'm all right.'

'I'm here, you know.'

'I don't believe it.'

Faris decides not to say anything to that. he already knew it was coming to this.

they leave for London at dawn, because the funeral is set to start at noon, and Rhys wears his dressiest black shirt and one of Faris' old suit jackets which hangs off his frame a little awkwardly, after Faris had convinced him that wearing a sweater to a funeral is probably not the best thing to do. Faris wears his arsehole suit, even though he fucking hates funerals, the phoniness of ignoring all the bad things someone has done just because they're dead, turning a body into a paragon of virtues, as well as the general amount of whining surrounding them. he figures he can't exactly let Rhys go all the way to London by himself, though, lest there's a possibility he could get hurt even more than he already is.

'you should probably sleep,' Faris says when he's driving up onto the motorway and half paying attention to Rhys' unmoving face in the rear view mirror, the sallow skin on his cheeks and the bags under his eyes. he looks like he's aged by twenty years in one go, Faris thinks. 'you barely slept last night.'

'who are you,' Rhys sneers, 'my mum.' he reaches into his pocket for his fags and lights one, and then he adds, 'never mind, my mum's dead.'

Faris grips the steering wheel a little bit tighter. he doesn't like this, this emotionless, put-on sarcasm, and there's a part of him that wants to slam the car off past the side of the road, ram it into another driver, just enough to put dents and scratches into the old metal of the car's body and to make the air bags explode, to give Rhys a good scare and maybe make him react like a normal person.

Faris does not believe in jump scares, knows that if he did this he'd simply sit through it with a straight face. he's got a monopoly on the apathetic cunt type of behaviour, and that should maybe make him feel like a bit of a hypocrite, but then, the difference between him and Rhys is that his behaviour is a persona carefully crafted to mask deeply rooted insecurities and flaws, while from Rhys it's a coping strategy that's both ineffective and unnerving to no end.

'I think as your boyfriend I've got a right to worry about you,' Faris says instead. 'you look really tired.'

'maybe because I am tired,' Rhys says and takes a drag from his cigarette.

Faris doesn't say anything, again, turns up the radio instead so he won't have to hear any more from Rhys, so he can pretend Rhys isn't there, a little bit.

the entire six hours of the drive, Rhys doesn't sleep, sits in the back seat smoking instead, ash dripping down onto the upholstery, and Faris pretends that he doesn't notice.

the funeral itself is a subdued affair, held at a small cemetery near the far outskirts of the town. Rhys had left all the organising to one of his aunts, a small woman with a heavy welsh accent that he introduces Faris to as his boyfriend. Faris watches him exchange handshakes and hugs and condolences with various relatives, still without a change in his demeanour, and himself shakes a number of hands and mumbles, 'it's a pleasure to meet you. even under those circumstances,' what he'd been told by his dad years and years ago to say at funerals.

Rhys insists that they sit in the pews at the front, and the entire time while the priest recites his speech, he grips onto Faris' hand with both of his small clammy ones, so tight it feels like it might leave bruises. his face still doesn't change, though, focussed onto the stained-glass window at the back of the small chapel.

he's still holding onto that hand when they're watching the three urns being placed into the plot the family had owned for years and years, the urns that should contain the remains of Rhys' family and that actually contain nothing at all. this is the worst kind of funeral, Faris thinks, the one that's nothing but a massive pity party, an excuse for the surviving family members to cry and get consoled. Rhys still won't cry and Faris has the desire to punch him in the face.

they don't bother with the reception afterwards. Faris drives the six hours in complete silence and Rhys continues smoking, lets the ash get all over the back seat, and Faris pretends to look away.

–

they get home and Rhys curls himself straight into the sheets after tugging his clothes off and slipping that sweater back on. Faris joins him, wrapping himself into the pile of blankets next to Rhys and leaning his head against Rhys' shoulder, the knob of the bone still somewhat prominent even through the layers of fabric, and that makes him think that even now, Rhys is still his to protect and keep close, still fragile and soft, and that's the last thing he wants, to still give a shit in a relationship that's essentially dead.

he sleeps quickly, that night, when he's heard Rhys' breathing halt to a slow rhythm less than ten minutes after they'd climbed into bed, and when he wakes up, Rhys is still asleep as well.

it feels unreal, right then, like he's woken up from yet another fucked up dream, but then he sees the dark circles under Rhys' eyes, how much paler than usual he seems, the soft twitches in his sleeping face and his body. Faris goes into the kitchen and makes coffee, and then he takes his mug and a cigarette and sits outside on one of the lawn chairs. it's a nice summer morning, really, not too warm and not too cold, the sun isn't too bright, and he wishes he had weather to go along with his mood, angry thunderstorms and bitter, chilling hail and a confused fog all over it. he lies back and watches the sky zip past, and in a way, it still seems surreal, not so much like it's not happening but more like it's happening and he doesn't exactly care, like being buzzed on painkillers, maybe.

when the sun is high enough in the sky to ache in his eyes and he figures Rhys should be up by now, Faris goes back inside and boils hot water for two pot noodles and a cup of rose hip tea. he finds Rhys sitting curled up against the headboard with a cigarette idly burning between his lips, a long trail of ash threatening to fall down onto the sheets from it.

'hey.'

Rhys blinks twice, as if he's been woken up from some state of half-sleep, and pulls the fag from his mouth, getting the ashes all over himself in the process. 'hey.'

'made you breakfast. lunch, technically.' Faris hands the still steaming mug of tea over to Rhys and watches him take a large gulp. he sits down on the edge of the bed, so close to Rhys their legs brush, the closest thing to intimate physical contact they've had in weeks, or at least it feels like that for Faris.

when Rhys sets his mug down on the bedside table, Faris hands one of the two cups of pot noodle over to him and then pushes a forkful of noodles from his own into his mouth. it doesn't taste like much of anything. Rhys looks at his with a somewhat quizzical expression for a second or two before he puts it onto the bedside as well. 'thanks, I suppose.'

'you should really eat that.'

'it's got mushrooms in it. I don't like mushrooms.'

'it's a stupid fucking pot noodle. you're not supposed to eat it because it tastes good. just eat, please.'

'maybe I don't want to.'

'Rhys. you've got to eat something.'

'stop worrying about me.' Rhys picks up the packet of cigarettes he'd left on the bedside and lights another one.

'someone's got to, though. don't see how I could not worry about you.'

there's a long period of silence. Rhys finishes smoking his fag and then reaches for the pot noodle to push small forkfuls into his mouth. Faris feels some weird mixture of useless and wasted potential, like there's something that needs doing elsewhere. he hasn't drawn anything since that night of the phone call, feels like his fingers are too clumsy and numb to draw, doesn't feel the need to any more, like there was a hold the compulsive part of his brain had on his fingers that's been loosened. he smokes the last one in his pack of emergency cigarettes.

'you've changed a lot, you know.' it seems stupid and obvious, but he feels like he should say it out loud, make it official, and also, maybe to coax some emotional response out of the thing that Rhys has changed into.

'tell me about it. you've got to change a bit if this kind of shit happens to you.'

'I don't like it.'

'you think I do?' Rhys sinks down against the headboard just a bit, unfolds his knees, like tension going slack.

'didn't really mean it like that. you're not even sad, I don't know what to do. you just seem really empty.'

'maybe that's what I am.' he folds his hands over his chest and shuts his eyes, and Faris takes that as a cue that the conversation is over.

he dips his head to kiss Rhys, just to assure himself that he's still there, that there's something of the old Rhys still down in there, but doesn't really taste anything on his mouth, either.

'Faris?'

'what?'

'what're you doing?'

'I don't know.' Faris braces his elbows on his knees and runs one hand behind his fringe, feels the tension of his own furrowed brow there. 'I'm really sorry.'

'no need to.' there's that heavy sadness tingeing Rhys' voice once again, a break from the previous apathy, and Faris isn't sure whether it's better or worse.

it becomes a caretaker job after that, in a way. Faris feels like he's obligated to do it, because it's not like Rhys could go anywhere else, and because there's still that heavy feeling in his gut, the knowing that something happened that he couldn't protect Rhys from, and the need to keep exactly that from happening again, and the fact that deep down there, he hates seeing Rhys like this, wants to keep him happy even when he already knows that it's only a matter of time until their relationship comes to an official end.

Faris really fucking hates having feelings, but he does what he can either way, makes Rhys sugary rose hip tea and soup, orders take out and coaxes him into eating, to ensure that he won't lose any more weight. every few days, he leads Rhys into the bathroom for a shower and a change of clothes, watches from the outside when he's standing under the spray of water with unsteady legs, to make sure he won't slip and hit his head. forcing Rhys into doing things other than wasting away, and sometimes he half convinces himself that this is going to help, that the next day, Rhys is going to get up and shower and eat by himself, and he never does.

Faris feels disturbingly like his own mother.

he picks up reading more frequently again, books he liked that he's already read, ones he'd picked up from antiques shops years ago and had been meaning to read, takes them with him when he sits on his side of the bed and watches Rhys, waiting for any sort of reaction coming from him. some days, he reads aloud the passages he likes a lot, the ones that are particularly well written or the ones that make him laugh, his favourite stanzas from poems, and then, sometimes, Rhys turns his head and gives him a small smile, a hollow smile, but still, it makes the room seem a little less quiet for that fleeting moment.

Faris fucking hates quiet spaces, be it doctors' offices or empty libraries or the orchard late at night, hates the eerie absence of sound that means the absence of humans, the sense of forced isolation. he's got his old portable record player next to his side of the bed, at least, playing the soft crackles of some album that Tom had recommended to him what seems like years earlier, or like something that happened in a drugged-out dream. even then, though, the music just fades out to background white noise after a while, and next to it, Rhys' silence seems deafening in comparison, muffling it even further.

the few conversations they have are always brief, too brief considering they're spending pretty much all their time in the same bed, and it's always the same conversation, too, Faris worrying, he can't stop himself from doing it, and Rhys sneering at him.

it's all very monosyllabic and apathetic, and most of the times, at the end of it, all that Faris wants to do is punch Rhys in the face.

there's the occasional kisses between them, too, but they're different from before, always fleeting and almost painful in how forced they seem, and always when Rhys talks about memories, with heavy eyes and a small voice, and Faris feels the need to kiss it all from his face, make him feel saved and loved and make it look to him, or maybe to himself, that things could possibly be normal again.

a number of times, they try sex, those times when Rhys is really far gone, so tired that he starts talking nonsense and choking on tears, and all Faris can do is whisper, 'I wish I could make this better,' and then do that, in the only way he knows how to. Rhys never pushes him off or tells him to stop, wraps his arms around him and lets his mouth be licked open, and when Faris is inside him, he's always hard and pushing his hips back just that slight bit. he's unresponsive during it, though, never moans or hisses out encouragements or even kisses Faris first, just lies there and lets himself be taken. even when he comes, he's completely limp, hanging in Faris' grip like a child's doll, but then, at least he falls asleep straight after, exhausted the way he's always been after sex. that's the main reason why Faris does this, to ensure that Rhys will get at least some hours of sleep without nightmares or twitches, to protect him from his own subconsciousness, since he's already failed to protect him from everything else. it's the most unsatisfactory sex he's had in years, really, feels like his own hand and his memories of the Rhys from before might even be more satisfying, but then, on the other hand, he doesn't feel like he would deserve to have satisfying sex with Rhys, either, not when this is all essentially his fault.

some nights, the rational part of him looks at Rhys, sex-sticky and blotchy-faced with tear drops and curled up in his nest of blankets, and aches for when it will all be over.

–

it's a morning, one day in late July, when Faris returns home from the shops to find Rhys sitting in front of the house, the stick of his fag held between two fingers. he's in his thin jacket and skinny trousers and his shoes, and Faris can't remember the last time he's seen Rhys fully clothed or outside.

'hey.'

'hey.'

'you've left the house.'

'I have.'

'guess that means you're feeling better?' Faris drops one of his grocery bags into the gravel, carefully. that sickeningly optimistic part of him wants to think that this means it might not be over after all, that they could have a fresh start. 'just a little bit?'

Rhys exhales, heavy, and flicks a line of ash away. 'listen, Faris,' he starts, 'I've not got much time.'

'what?' Faris asks, and almost immediately feels stupid for it, because that's the moment when he notices what exactly Rhys is sitting on. it's his suitcase, overstuffed once again and toppled over onto one side.

'my taxi's set to arrive in ten minutes. I didn't think you'd be back this soon.'

Faris squats down to minimise the distance between them, so he can watch Rhys' face. 'so you're leaving, then?'

'yeah.'

'can I ask why?'

Rhys exhales a long thread of smoke. 'look, we both know that this isn't going anywhere at this point any more.' almost, it feels like a relief, to finally hear Rhys saying it out loud. 'and I just really need to be by myself for a while. get my life together like you do.'

'Rhys.' Faris isn't sure what else he could possibly say.

'look, it's not your fault, it's mine.'

'what do you mean?'

'all because I'm fucked up like this.'

'don't apologise.' Faris reaches out to grasp one of Rhys' hands between his own two, feels it just as clammy as it was the first time, and it stings. 'this is all my fault.'

'what?'

'because I wanted to protect you and I couldn't.'

Rhys laughs, actually laughs, with no humour in it at all. 'you're such an idiot, god.' he tries to pull his hand back, but Faris' grip is tight, completely enclosing it. 'so much like him, too. you've always been.'

'like who?'

'you know who.' Rhys shakes his head and Faris sees, oh, _oh_ , and that's the shatters in his chest being punched, breaking off into smaller and smaller pieces, and he loosens his hands.

'god, I'm sorry.'

'of course you are.'

'Rhys.'

'you should probably go inside. my taxi's going to be here soon, and I really don't want this to be a big scene.'

'I wish you'd stay.'

'can't.' Rhys flicks the butt of his cigarette down to his feet. 'I've got to do this, you know.'

'I'm worried.'

'well, stop.' he folds his bony fingers together and slowly peels the ring he'd taken from Faris off one. it's the most trite, stupid gesture imaginable, and Faris wants to cry, wishes he could. when Rhys' hands shake so much they drop the ring down into the gravel, he doesn't bother picking it up.

'what do you plan on doing, all on your own?'

'I'll figure it out, I guess.'

'Rhys.' Faris pushes his head forward, braces his hands on Rhys' knees and connects their lips together, and still doesn't taste anything.

the compulsive part inside of him, the part that scares the rest of him can't help but think of how frail Rhys is next to him, how easy it would be to just take him, grab him so hard he cries and keep him from leaving, just keep him here to watch him break down and uselessly try to stop it. it feels far away, though, like tripping out on pain meds, again. he grips Rhys' thighs tightly, hard enough that he's half afraid it could bruise.

'Faris, no.' Rhys chokes back something, a thing which he hopes isn't a sob. 'stop. please.'

'I'm sorry.'

'can you just leave? please?'

and Faris does, he gets up and grabs his bags and goes inside. it all feels unreal, through the thick filter of being high, and then the tyres of Rhys' taxi slosh on the gravel and it's still unreal. he makes coffee and lights a cigarette and none of it seems like it matters.

–

the first two or three days after Rhys, Faris waits. he's not going to come back, none of them ever do after they've left him, but then, none of them before have ever been homeless and helpless and quite that fucked up. Faris feels both hungover and too sober all at once, so he drinks and smokes. he sits on the sofa with a bottle of Jack in one hand and one of Rhys' cigarettes that he'd left here in the other and listens to Joy Division and feels like a cliché. he doesn't cry.

the thing is, Faris has never been good at emoting. when it's been a week and Rhys still hasn't come back, when the haze is beginning to pass, he stumbles into the study still drunk and starts drawing, pulls all the things that had happened back from his brain like gooey ink. he draws for days on end and then, when he feels like he's done enough for now, he goes to visit Tom, tells him that he and Rhys are over. Tom asks how he feels, and he shrugs. Faris has never been the type to emote a lot. he lets Tom take him out to the pub that night, and when he's drunk enough for it to seem like a good idea, he punches a wall until his knuckles are bleeding and cracked, and Tom just lets him.

life goes on. Faris has yet another exhibition, at the same gallery as the one he'd met Rhys at. most of it is about Rhys, too, the Rhys who tells him myths over the phone and the one who's all spread legs and bloody lips, the one who makes him itch with compulsions he probably shouldn't have, and the one from the end, all of them so disconnected from each other. when the journalists ask if he had any inspiration for this, if it's all about one specific person, he says it's a girl. Faris stays at the gallery during opening hours the whole week, looking for a skinny boy with shiny hair in the Rorschach of uniform black gallery goers, and Rhys never shows up. maybe Faris is a little bit worried.

he meets a girl in the gallery, a musician with bright eyes and curly hair, and takes her out to eat a number of times. she laughs at his jokes and reads the same books as he does, and he's almost not scared of knowing how this is going to end, because any way, it's going to be less painful than Rhys. he takes her back to his house, and in the early morning, when they're both blanketed in sweat and a bit sore, she asks him about the drawings, what they're really about, and he tells her the whole truth.

it's December by the time that Rhys comes back, one late evening when he's sitting on the couch with that girl and it's snowing, just the slightest bit. there's the slosh of tyres on gravel and then Rhys is knocking on his door, skinny and miserable with the cold turning his lips pale blue, and he's saying that he's done some terrible things, he really just needs a warm place to stay for a while. Faris feels like he feels too much, wants to push him away and kiss him and scream into his face, all at once, but then, Faris has never been the type to emote a lot.

'why don't you come in. cold out here.'


End file.
